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.A ^ • M 







THE PORTRAIT. 


A ROMANCE OF THE CUYAHOGA VALLEY. 


A. G. RIDDLE. 

> } 



NEW YORK: 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 
150 Worth Street, cor. Mission Place. 




COPTRIGHT, 1890, 

BY 

JOHN W. LOVELL 


THE PORTRAIT. 


CHAPTER I. 

THE PROPHECY. 

A ll the short rain}^ autumn day, with his bare 
brown feet, and scant,worn and soiled roundabout 
and pants, had he been walking and runing through the 
muddy roads and by-waj s, down through Shalersville 
to Ravenna, and finally back to Freedom, and so 
across the woods home. Ilis poor faded mother had 
been suddenly taken worse toward morning of that day, 
and he had hastil}" cut and carried in some wood, and, 
after a scant breakfast, had hurried off for the doctor, 
lie had gone b^^ wa}^ of one of the neighbors, and asked 
that some one would go and stay until he returned, and 
was ofl*. He would give the doctor his five mink-skins, 
that he had caught that fall, along the Cu^^ahoga, and 
would do without a new preceptor and spelling-book. 
Now, wear}’, famished and disheartened, as the early 
night deepened in the leafless trees, he hurried towards 
home, with an unusual depression and foreboding. He 
Qad failed to meet the doctor, and had only left word 

( 5 ) 


6 


THE PORTRAIT. 


for him at his residence, and the places where his 
patients lived. All the day he had carried over his 
long and lonely road a sad, undefined presentiment. 

It was already quite dark as he hastened on. lie 
was familiar with all the forest paths, and could trav- 
erse the woods anywhere without a trail, and with a 
sense of absolute security. As he approached the little 
clearing, he ran forward and climbed upon the decay- 
ing brush-fence that marked its uncertain limits, and 
paused a moment to look at the log hovel but a few 
rods distant — the only home he could remember — with 
its leak}^ roof, and decaying walls, slowly lapsing to 
ruin. 

No window was on the side of his approach, and lie 
could detect no smoke escaping from tlie blackened 
opening at one end of the low roof. As he passed 
around to the front, he stopped to listen at the low 
door of rough boards that hung on rude wooden hinges. 
No sound reached him ; and with a trembling hand he 
pulled the string and pushed the door open, into the 
single, dark,^ silent room. 

“ Ma,” he called out in an eager, distressed voice, 
with the tears unconsciously escaping from his eyes. A 
moan answered him from one corner. 

“ Oh, ma, I didn’t find the doctor at Hines’s, and I 
went clear to Ravenna, and they told me he had gone up 
to see old Mis Roper at the centre of Nelson ; and I 
went there, and he had gone home b}- wa}" of Randolph, 
and I missed him, — I hurried fast as I could. Has 
pa been home? ” Another moan was his answer. 

“Oh, ma! are you worse?” An undistinguishable 
murmur was all he heard in reply. 


THE PROPHECY. 


7 


“ Where’s John? Has nobody been here?” faintly. 
He went to the broken stone hearth of the jambless 
fireplace, and found the shortened wooden poker, and 
stirred open the ashes, which disclosed the glowing re- 
mains of the charred back-log. Upon the coals he put 
some pieces of hickory bark, and soon a crackling flame 
leaped up and revealed the wretched room, with its 
two or three broken chairs and wooden stools, — its 
ricket^^, rough table standing by the poor thin bed, 
upon which lay the weak and suffering woman. 

The boy again approached the bed, and was frightened 
by the change in the face, disclosed by the ruddy light 
of the fire. 

“ Ma ! ma ! ” said he, in hushed and awed voice. 
The heavy eyes opened, and the face was with an effort 
turned towards him. “Fred, is it 3"ou? — I feared 
you wouldn’t come — I wanted — to tell ye — ye — 
I — I — ain’t yer mother, Fred — I — ” 

“ Ma ! ” with a low cry of anguish, and a look in his 
great innocent eyes like that with which a young fawn 
would receive a death-blow from its dam. . 

“ No matter,” said the exhausted woman, “ yer an 
angel to me.” 

“ May I love you, ma? May I love little Johnny?” 
in a low, plaintive voice. The poor woman moaned 
again, and tears ran over her faded face, and broken 
murmurs died on her drawn and shrivelled lips. At 
last she said ; 

“Fred, put yer fingers on my eyes for a little — 
so — and he stood with his fingers lightty resting on 
the closed lids, and listening to the slow, low breathing. 
Slower it came, and then, — it did not come again. 


8 


THE PORTRAIT. 


The child listened with a great awe, and a gi’eat palloi 
came into his face, and what next occurred he never 
knew. 

A plaintive cry from John, lying by the side of the 
silent, imbreathing form, aroused him, as a little soiled 
face, and head with tangled flaxen hair, started up. 

“ Hush ! hush, John ! ” said Fred, taking him from 
the ragged bed-clothes. “ Hush ! don’t cr}’.” Some- 
thing in his manner seemed to awe the child, who stood 
half naked in the strong light, looking frightened at 
the elder, and then turning towards the bed, cried out : 
“ Ma, ma ; Don wants micky — Don wants micky.” 

“ Hush, hush, John ! she won’t hear j^ou.” And 
going to a shelf he found a pewter basin, from which 
he poured some milk into a battered cup, and gave the 
hungry child ; to whom he also gave the remains of a 
johnn3"-cake. He then drew from under the bed a 
small truckle-bed, and placed the appeased and sleepy 
John carefully among its tattered coverings, where he 
subsided into quiet sleep. 

The bo}’, used to these offices for the j'ounger, and 
doing the scanty chores about their wretched home, 
mechanically replenished the fire, and put two or three 
things in their places, all the time with a dumb, be- 
numbed feeling, aroused by the words : “ I’m not j^er 
mother.” He was too 3'oung to reason, or reflect, or 
think ; he could only feel that the world was torn from 
him ; that his mother was not his, that “ little Johnny” 
did not belong to him, and that he must go away, — but 
not to-night ; for they would want him. Then he went 
on his tip-toes towards the bed, and began to realize, 
in his childish way, the awful thing that had happened. 


THE PROPHECY. 


9 


He was not afraid of the rigid form, that was dear and 
tender to him ; but it was the shadow}^, unknown 
thing, Death, and it was there, and he shrunk away 
a little from it ; and going out, he brought in more 
wood and i)laced it about the fire to diy. Then 
with a gourd shell he brought fresh water from the 
spring ; and remembering that he was very hungrj’, 
drank the remainder of the milk, and thought he 
would bake a johnny-cake ; but when he found that 
there would not be more than meal enough for a cake 
for breakfast, he gathered up a few dry crumbs, and 
contented himself with them. 

He remembered that when his sister died, two 
years ago, they placed a clean wet cloth over her face ; 
and ransacking a small chest, from which the lid had 
been broken, he found a white rag, which having mois- 
tened, he carefully and reverently spread over the face 
of the dead. Then replenishing the fire, he removed 
his clothes, and lying down by little John, twice or 
thrice uttered, with folded hands, the little pra3'er his 
mother had taught him ; and with a hazy numbness of 
heart, he went to sleep ; Avhile the strong fire-light, 
leaping up the open chimne3'-wa3’, for a time lit up 
the wretched room, glinted the white covering on 
the face of the dead, and pla3^ed lovingly upon the 
features of the sleeping boys, — one round and chubb3^ 
with the flaxen locks of infancy, and the other dark and 
beautiful, with long black eyelashes fringing his brown 
cheek, and his striking, but prematurely old, face 
framed in tangled masses of dark damp hair. The 
rain subsided into sprinkles, and the fitful wind was 
sinking to little gusts that pla3^ed among the few 


10 


THE PORTRAIT. 


belated leaves which still clung to the trees without 
Within, the fire burned out and the brands fell apart, 
throwing, from time to time, a sudden llame which filled 
the room with ghostly shadows, and then subsided to a 
red glow, that gave color and warmth to everything, 
until that, too, faded out. An e}’ e that could look bc*- 
yond the gross and material world, might have seen the 
sordid room luminous with a beautifying radiance, in 
the light of which soft and tender fingers w^ere remov- 
ing the harsh and bitter lines of earth and suffering 
from the face of the dead, and bestowing upon the 
mouth the sweet, indescribable smile of serene and 
beautiful death ; while loving forms were bending over 
and kissing the e3"elids of the sleeping children, and 
leaving on the brow of the dark one a wreath of min- 
gled light and shadow. Had this sight met the eyes 
of a seer, he would have prophesied of suffering and 
final triumph. Was it martyrdom in this world, and 
crowning in the next? The wreath was very like a 
garland, and its^ roses had the hue of earth. 


CHAPTER II. 


MORNING AND MOURNING, 



ORNING came, and its sunshine lay ri(;h and 


warm through all the narrow but beautiful val- 
ley of the Cu3'ahoga, whose scarcely tinged waters, 
escaping from the Welchfield marshes, plunged through 
the rocky barrier known as ‘‘ the Rapids,’* and sweep- 
ing southerly' along the eastern border of Mantua, 
turned its vehement current, swollen with the autumn 
rains, south-westerly'. Below the bend of the river, on its 
southerly' bank, and a few rods distant, stood the sol- 
itary cabin mentioned above. 

Silent and lonely' under the gilding sun, with its 
rude door and patched and botched window, and all 
its wretchedness brought out from the night, in strong 
relief, as the level rays illuminated it. Two or three 
acres of cleared ground, with little signs of cultivation, 
and bearing a thrifty eclectic crop of thistles, mullen, 
dock and burdock, surrounded it, with a little imper- 
fectly' paled patch, in which were a few weed-choked 
vegetables, ripened and shrivelled by the late autumn, 
without a pig or hen, cow, or even a dog to relieve 
tlie squalid desolation of the place. A pathway led 
down to the river, where, attached to a little tree, 
with a bark painter, floated Fred’s half-filled little dug- 


( 11 ) 


12 


THE PORTRAIT. 


out. Another path led up from a clearing a little 
below, along which, with an unsteady step, a slouched, 
rough-looking man, with bloated face, blood-shot e3’es, 
half-covered with tatters, and the wreck of an old straw 
hat, broken down on one side of his matted hair, was 
straggling up. The face ma^" have been good once, 
but no traces of 3"outhful freshness or purit3^ remained. 
An unsuccessful effort to troll the refrain of a low 
drinking song, empWed the small surplus of faculties 
not used in keeping his feet, as he came through the 
belt of woods into the field surrounding the hut, but 
was hopelessly abandoned, as, with a seemingl3" infirm 
purpose, he approached — not his home — but the place 
where he sometimes got sober. He was evidentl3' re- 
covering from a long and exhausting debauch, and his 
eye still had the dull, uncertain swimming of inebria- 
tion. He reached and steadied himself on the rotting 
wooden step, in front of the door, at which for a mo- 
ment he stared with an earnest intensit3’, as if to 
remove an3^ lingering doubt of its identit3' ; then, with 
a muttered ejaculation, he dashed the door open, and 
partially stumbling, stepped and reeled over the de- 
ca3'ed door-sill. Recovering himself, and resting witn 
one hand on the door, he sent his stupid stare about 
the now well-lighted hovel. His swimming e3'es stop- 
ped on the covered face at one end of the wretched bed. 
“ What the hell ! — hullo, old woman ! — I say ; ye 
sleep with 3’er — yer — night-cap over yer e3'es, eh?” 
Making a step forward, he snatched the cloth from 
the dead white face, which for a moment struck even 
his obscured and staggering faculties. The noisy en- 
trance of the drunken man awakened the children ; 


MORNING AND MOURNING. 


13 


when Fred, with his e3’^es staring wide, like those of a 
timid wild animal, into which in a moment came 
something of the instinctive courage of the brute, 
sprang between the man and the bed, and, with all his 
force, pushed him back. “You shall not touch her! 
3’’ou shall not touch her 1 ” he cried ; “ she said she was 
not my mother, and 3'ou shall not touch her ! ” As if, 
somehow, this declaration released him from all respect 
for the person of the intruder. The man turned and 
gazed at the defiant boy with uncomprehending amaze- 
ment, while John, who was aroused to the cr^dng stage, 
put up a dolorous wail. Beginning to be sobered by 
the unwontedness around him, the still dazed man 
looked wonderingly about, — even a drunken man could 
not fail to identify the place. Presently he again ap- 
proached Fred, and in a low confidential tone, as if to 
assure him that he was somehow on his side, if he only 
knew where that was, — “I saj’, Fred, eh ; old feller, 
3"er know, what is^t ? ** The bo3’*s 01113^ answer was a 
dumb gesture toward the bed. 

“ Eh ! come now, tell a feller ; can’t yc?** 

“ She is dead ! ” with his lip quivering and tears well- 
ing into his e3^es. 

“ No ; yer don’t come that on me ! ” when his eye 
again fell on the ghastl3^, changeless face. Something in 
its immovable rigidit3’, its stark pallor, seemed to 
strike his returning senses, and he dashed his soiled 
hand over his bleared, rheumy e3"es, and slowly, 
and with a doubting reverence, approached the bed, 
when the wasted and sharp outline of tlic features, 
with the uuopening eyes and still bosom, impressed 
upon the wretched man that he stood in the presence 


14 


THE PORTRAIT. 


of his dead wife. When that idea had fully mastered 
him, — “I say, Fred, when d’ this 3’er’appen?” in a 
low, hollow w^hisper. 

“ Last night,” said Fred, giving w^a3% in sobs of bo}"- 
ish agon}", for the first time. 

John, wdio had tumbled out of his nest of reeking 
rags, came toddling to the bedside. “ Ma ! rna ! ma ! ” 
in his piping w’ail. So the three miserable beings — 
the unknowing John, the just comprehending, sobering 
fatlier, ready to fight or cry, as a feather might incline, 
and the utterly overcome older child, severed from the 
w"orld by their poverty, squalor and wretchedness — 
united in their abandoned and desolate cries over the 
finally extinguished spark that had shed a ray of 
warmth upon them, — the broken band that had feebly 
united them to home and a bare existence. 

Their grief was interrupted by the entrance of the 
neighbor below, who, although poor, had occasionally 
looked upon them with a cheery face and a little help, 
and who remembered that he had seen none of them 
for two or three days. Surprised and shocked, he 
aroused the now nearly sobered man, and hurried him 
off to call the neighbors to his assistance, wdiile he 
helped to huddle the scanty clothes upon the children, 
intending to take tliem to his house, a half mile below. 
Fred refused to leave his mother alone, and when in- 
duced to go, he wet and replaced the cloth over her 
face ; and the w"ondering neighbor, acting upon the sug- 
gestion, drew the soiled sheet over the w'oman’s head, 
and hurried the children away. 


CHAPTER III. 


ALONE. 



N the second day after her death, the remains of 


the poor woman were put away, with decent and 
tender respect. In that far-off time, of log-cabins, 
scattered along the rough highways, of small, rude, 
stumpy fields, of ox-sleds and heavy carts, of coarse 
fare, of flax breaks, hatchels, spinning-wheels, hand- 
looms, and fulling mills ; of tow cloth for summer, and 
butternut fulled cloth for winter ; of cow-hide boots 
and fox-skin caps, — the “ forehanded” were not much 
better off than the poor. A community of fortune and 
interest, a common struggle for subsistence with tlie 
rugged stubbornness of even a kindly nature in the 
wilderness, when the coming of a new settler was an 
event of public importance, and the raising of a log- 
house a sort of holiday, forbade much real suffering, 
and toil-roughened hands were ready to do the needed 
kindness to the unfortunate and aflfticted. 

The actual condition of the Wardens, made known 
at the death of the poor woman, was a surprise, and 
created almost a horror. What could now be done, 
was done for them. A coffin was prepared, a preacher 
was procured, and a large concourse assembled from 


( 15 ) 


16 


THE PORTRAIT. 


the nearest settlements ; a very respectable procession 
followed the remains, borne by tlic men, to their quiet 
resting-place. 

Warden, sobered and decent, Fred, with an extem- 
porized suit and cow-hide shoes, and little Johmi}^, with 
his clarified face and combed hair, led between his 
father and elder brother, as the sole mourners, were 
the objects of much comment and commiseration. 

Fred, who went about in a benumbed and dazed sort 
of a wa}^, came in for the largest share of notice. 
Living in the woods with his mother, and seldom asso- 
ciating with other boys, and tall for his age, his man- 
ner was shy ; and, accustomed to the solitude of the 
forest, and loneliness of the river, he was growing up 
thoughtful and taciturn. As well as he was capable, he 
had turned over in his mind the words of the d3’ing 
woman, that she was not his mother. He remembered 
to have heard it said* that persons, when d3dng, were 
often out of their heads, and he thought that these 
disturbing words might have been spoken in that con- 
dition ; so he went over and over with this subject, 
and then tried to think of what was going on around 
him. 

As a group of women stood a little apart, looking at 
the filling of the grave, — “ Did 3^011 ever hear o’ such 
a thing? Old Mis Pettibone said that he went mor’n 
twent3" mile for the doctor, and got back jest ’afore his 
mother died, and he’n the baby’s there all livin’ alone 
at the time ; an’ that he must a closed ’er eyes, an’ put 
a wet cloth on ’er face, and him not mor’n ’levin year 
old ! ” 

“Not mor’n nine,” was the answer. “His folks 


ALONE. 


17 


came here *boiit six year ago ; and Mis Warden told 
Mis Jones that Fred was three year old, then.” 

“Du tell ! ” and the low-voiced women relapsed into 
admiring silence, as they intently watched the uncon- 
scious boy, now as impassive in his grief as a young 
Indian. 

“ What a time she must a’ had, all her life. Sam 
allers away, an’ when to hum never sober, and never 
doin’ nothin’, and Mis Blair said there warn’t a blessed 
thing in tlie house, but a little mustj^ meal ; an’ how on 
airth them children lived, mortal sakes only knows.” 

The grave was filled, and the broken turf replaced, 
the simple ceremony ended, and the saddened neigh- 
bors dispersed homeward. At the entrance to the 
burying-place, a kind woman, who had taken charge 
of little Johnny, resumed possession of him, and 
placing him in the box of a lumber wagon, drove 
away ; while Fred, who relinquished his hand, stood 
with his great, innocent, tender eyes, full of mute sad- 
ness, staring after him, and thought, for the moment, 
that he must turn back in the twilight, and go alone to 
the deserted hut by the river ; then he turned again, as 
if undecided, to the fresh mound of broken earth that 
hid his mother. At this moment, a man who had 
attentively and kindly observed him approached, and 
holding out his hand, — “You are going home with 
me to-night,” he said, speaking in a voice so gentle 
and tender, that the poor child looked up in wonder. 
The face was a good, strong, homelj^, manly face, now 
all aglow with a tender smile, and with moisture in the 
kindly gray eyes. 

Fred had never met such a look before, and at once 
2 


18 


THE PORTRAIT. 


held out both his hands to his new friend. As thej 
turned into the highway, another younger, slender, 
thin-faced, but kindl}’^ man, joined them, and took 
Fred’s other hand, which he held with a grasp almost 
painful. Thus between them the}" led him eastward, 
to the Maryfield Corners, and so north on the state 
road, along which they proceeded for a half mile, and 
then turned off to the east. 

“I understand,” said the younger man, as they 
walked along, “ that this young man is quite a trapper, 
and I don’t know but a hunter also.” 

“Indeed! Is this the boy that caught tlic otter? 
How was that? Is your name Jake?” asked the 
elder. 

“ Fred,” was the answer. 

“ How was it about the otter? ” No answer. 

“ Uncle Bill asks you about catching an otter,” said 
the younger, kindly. 

“ The otter? Oh 1 ” as if awakening, “ he broke the 
trap and got away.” It was evident that his thoughts 
were elsewhere. 

“ Poor boy ! ” said Uncle Bill ; “ he is overcome and 
worn out; sha’n’t I carry you?” very kindly. “You 
are not so heavy as a buck.” 

“ Oh, I can walk ! ” cried the boy, aroused partly 
by the unwonted kindness of their voices, and as much 
by a wish to appear manly. Not many rods east of 
the state road, they reached Uncle Bill’s residence, one 
of the few framed houses that then indicated one of 
the better-to-do. The younger of the two men left 
them at the gate, and Fred was tenderly received by a 
kind, matronly woman, who, with a young man and a 


ALONE. 


.19 


boy, about Fred’s age, constituted the household. 
Fred seemed to have been expected, and he was soon 
seated with his kind host at a table covered by a clean 
white cloth, and with more and better dishes than he 
could remember ever to have seen. A tender, smoking 
venison steak was placed before him ; and when his 
supper was finished, with a bowl of milk, he was taken 
into the best room, more sumptuously furnished than 
he had dreamed of, and sank, wonderingl3*, into the 
bed, and into a slumber deeper than dreams, and 
longer than the night. 


CHAPTER IV. 


WHAT WAS SAID ABOUT IT, 


ATE in the evening, at the new yellow store at the 



Corners, several men dropped in, — Uncle Bill Skin- 
ner and Fenton, just mentioned ; Sim Shelden, from 
the Carman neighborhood, and others ; and naturally 
the talk turned upon the funeral and the AVardens. 

“ Brother James had rather a tight fit to bring *er in, 
eh — Uncle Bill?” asked one. 

Rather. He left it a leetle in doubt, whether the 
water had been efficaciousl}^ applied, — so that if Elder 
Rider should happen to be there when she arrives, he 
will make a point against the poor thing. You see 
they don’t hold just alike, on all the vital points."' 

“ I think,” said Fenton, with the broad accent of his 
Irish origin, “ that if brother James should put in Sam 
•by way of mitigation of damages, as the law3’ers call 
’t, he’d carry his case.” 

“ Sam’s not a bad fellow nat’rally,” said another. 

“He was anything but a good husband,” rejoined 
Fenton, with warmth, “ to leave that poor woman to die 
alone with those starving children Free as grace is 
during a revival, none was ever wasted on him. Why, 
in that old hovel there warn’t enough to draw a 
mouse, — the flies had deserted it.” 


( 20 ) 


WHAT WAS SAID ABOUT IT. 


21 


“Where do ye s’pose Sam is to-night?” asked one. 

“ Down at Green’s, drinking that stuff, — one drop of 
which will kill sixteen old rats,” answered Fenton. 
“ He loafed off that wa^", from his wife’s grave.” 

“ There ought to be something done to break up that 
place,” said Shelden. 

“What can be done?” asked Uncle Bill. “He’s 
rich and cunnin’, and sly and shrewd, and deep and 
still.” 

“ Yes, he ’stils and brews too, and has a devil 
of a g^ng about him, and will meet 3^011 all the time as 
smooth, and plausible, and polite, and soft as a basket 
of chips,” said another. 

“Where did he come from?” asked Shelden, “and 
how did he make his money ? ” 

“ The devil onlj" knows,” answered Fenton. “ He came 
from the South somewhere. He brought up a good 
team, looked coarse and rough, can’t read or write, 
as you know, rented the old tavern stand over there, 
and then bought it, and bought other land ; brought 
a deed for a good deal with him, and has slipt and slid, 
and worried and wriggled along, nobodj" can tell how, 
till I heard Squire Foster say he was the richest man 
in Portage Count3^” 

“ Did Warden come with him? ” 

“ No, I think he came a few months later,” said Un- 
cle Bill. “ There must be some sort of relation or con- 
nection between them ; for Sam built that shantj^ over 
across the river on Green’s land, and Green’s sister 
used to go over there once in a while. I never knew 
much about ’em.” 

“No wonder Green’s wife died,” remarked Fenton ; 


22 


THE PORTRAIT. 


“ such a husband, or such a son as Jake, would either 
be too much for any woman, and no one could stand 
both.” 

“ I never heard anything specific against Green,” said 
Shelden, “ except that he has a gang about him.” 

“ No, nor I,” said Uncle Bill ; “ but the atmosphere 
is bad about him ; you don’t feel easy in his presence ; 
and if he laughs, nobody laughs with him ; such men 
ain’t healthy.” 

“What will become of the children?” asked Shel- 
den. “ There’s two or three, ain’t there? ” 

“ One died a year or two ago,” said Fenton. “ Mrs. 
Jones has taken the ^^oungest, and the oldest is at Mr. 
Skinner’s.” 

“ Do you know, Fenton,” said the latter, “ that as I 
sat lookin’ at ’em this afternoon, Sam, with his fiorid, 
bloated face, and red ej-es, and the freckled, round- 
faced, tow-headed little one, and remembered the pale, 
fiaxen-haired mother, and then looked at Fred, tall and 
dark, with his splendid eyes and well-cut features, it 
’peared to me that he belonged to another race ? ” 

“ Of course he does,” said Fenton, decidedly ; “ there’s 
blood and raee in that boy, you may depend upon that ; 
)"Ou can see it in his motions. Row Lewis said that 
he treed a wild cat, off in back of Sam’s house, about a 
month ago, and got a ball stuck in his rifle, and that 
this boy came to him, and staid, and watched the cat 
till he went down to Giles’s shop, and fixed the gun, 
and went back and shot it. He said the boy never 
thought of being afraid of it.” 

“ IIow old is he?” asked’ SheMen. 


WHAT WAS SAID ABOUT IT. 


23 


“ I can’t tell,” said Uncle Bill ; “ nine or ten or 
leven — maybe twelve.” 

“ What will become of him ? ” asked the practical 
Shelden. 

“ I don’t know ; I was so taken with him this after- 
noon, that I told Sam I would take him home with me, 
till he could see what he could do.” 

You’d better keep him,” said Fenton, decidedly. 

“I would, willingly,” said Uncle Bill, “if his father 
would let me have him. The notion has somehow got 
into my head,” lowering his voice, “ that Green is in 
some way interested in this bo}'.” 

The three men looked silently at each other for a 
moment, and Shelden gave a low whistle. 

“The devil!” exclaimed Fenton; “the boy is no 
more like Green than a j^oung eagle is like a thieving 
old owl.” 

“There are other things besides blood. We shall 
see,” quietly replied Uncle Bill. 


CHAPTER V. 


green’s tavern and its landlord. 

UST below, on the south-east corner, fronting on 



the State Road, stood Green’s Hotel, an extensive 
rambling collection of buildings, composed partly of 
hewed or squared logs, partly of round logs, and to 
which had been added, within three or four years, a new, 
and, for the time, spacious two story framed building, 
neatly finished and painted. Near these were extensive 
sheds, and partly in the rear, roorn}^, well-built barns 
and stables. The whole place bore the appearance of 
being much frequented. The bar-room was in the block 
part, — a large, low, and unattractive room ; and on the 
night after the funeral it was diml}" lighted, and deserted 
by its usual frequenters. 

In an inner room, also diml}^ lighted, was the pro- 
prietor, a tall, muscular, heavy built, heavy shouldered, 
heav}" headed, heavy browed, rough fefatured man, 
his small, quick, deep set, hard, round blue e3ms 
peering stealthily" out from his overhanging eymbrows, 
with florid face, and scanty light hair. Although a 
heavy" man, he was walking up and down the room with 
a light feline step, and occasionally" dropping his head 
on one side, as if to listen for his own foot-fall, or to 
see if he could hear what his thoughts were. 


( 24 ) 


green’s tavern and its landlord. 


25 


He was not alone ; near a table at one end of the 
room sat Sam Warden, silent, dogged and defiant; — 
sober now, the wretched man seemed to have been 
surveying the abyss, at whose bottom he found him- 
self, under conditions that enabled him to comprehend 
its depth and hopelessness. His eyes were on the floor, 
with the sullen look of a man broken, exhausted, and 
hunted down, who hoped nothing, looked for nothing, 
and feared nothing. 

The men had evidently conferred and disagreed. 

“ Sam,” said Green, gliding up to him like a serpent, 
and laying his hand upon him like a featlier, and breath- 
ing his name in a voice that he intended not to hear 
himself, while his quick eye stole stealthily about to 
detect any listening shadow, — “ Sam ! ” 

“ What ? ” said Sam, in a rough, hoarse voice. 

“ *Ush-h-h-h !” with a deprecating wave of his hand, 
as if urging the shadows to withdraw, “ they’ll hear ye.” 

“ Who the devil cares ! ” 

“ Sam ! ” with seduction in his breath ; “ Sam, take a 
little sothin’,” holding up to the light a bottle of spirits. 
“ It’s brandy — rale fourth-proof — try a little? ” 

“ Not a dam drop ! ” sulkily. 

“ Sam, what d’ye want? tell a feller.” 

“ Not a dam thing.” 

“Remember, Sam — ” 

“ I do remember.” 

“What d’ye remember?” with a voice of thunder, 
and a stamp that shook the house; “what d’3’e re- 
member, je mis’able whiske^^-suckin’ cuss! ye poor 
bloated porpant I ” 

“ Porpant ! who made me a porpant? ” springing up. 


26 


THE PORTRAIT. 


and confronting the enraged landlord with a stolid looh 
of defiance. 

With a gasp, half a hoarse bark, lost in an angry 
growl, the furious Green, with livid face and eyes burn- 
ing with murder, grasped the miserable and helpless 
Sam b}^ the throat, with the strangling hands of speed}" 
death, and literall}" lifting him from his feet, shook him 
as if he had been a figure of cork, and threw him help- 
lessly several feet upon the fioor. 

“Uncle — Uncle Jarvis,” feebl^Muoaned the subdued 
wretch. AVith a single step Green stood over him, and 
hissed, “ Say Uncle Jarvis again while 3"e live, an’ 
I ’ll murder ye ! ” And turned to confront the shadows. 

The cowering wretch la}' dumb and trembling on the 
floor, when Green, bringing a glass of brandy from the 
table, lifted his head up. 

“ ’Ere, drink this ! ” The poor wretch swallowed a 
little, which his stomach immediately rejected. Again 
and again the dose was repeated, until the liquor was 
retained. 

“ Get up,” said Green, “ and sit down like a reason- 
’ble man.” 

“ Why’re ye so ’ard on a feller! ” whined the some- 
what recovered Sam. “ AVhat d ’ye w'ant, anyway ? 
AVhat’ll ye do with ’im ?” 

“ AYhat business ’s that o’ yourn? as his father, ye s’ll 
bind ’im to me. ’Es’ll w'ork in the stable, pick up 
chips, black boots, an’ mebby drive stage. What’s that 
•to ye?” 

“Ye know that she that’s dead, poor Betsey, liked 
’im, an’ ’e put a wet cloth on ’er dead face, — I seed 
’im,” and the poor creature broke down. 


green’s tavern and its landlord. 


27 


‘‘ Come, come, Sam ! ” with his old gammoning way, 
and waving off a shadow, “ don’t be a fool ; take 
another drink, an’ be a man ; put a wet tow’l ’round 
that neck o’ yers, so that yer licker ’ll do ye good in the 
mornin’.” 

“ There’s sotliin in mat Do}^ oncommon,” said Sam, 
preparing to go. “ The mornin’ after Betsey died, he 
pushed me from the bed, an’ thar was sothin’ in ’is e3^es, 
that — that — ” 

“ That what, 3^011 fool ? ” looking about, a little fearful 
of eavesdroppers. 

“ That made me kind o’ — 

“ Shet up, will 3'e ! ” with a backward, deprecating 
motion of his hand ; and then, with the old wheedle, 
“ Come, come, Sam, 3’e ain’t 3xrself to-night ; 3'e’ll be 
better in the mornin’,” looking around to see that the 
wa}" was clear. 

As Sam was about to go, “ Sa}’’ ! ” said Green, and 
coming up with the old noisless tread, with the wave 
at the shadows, and putting his lips to Sam’s ear, 
“D’3"e s’pose she tole ’im an3’thin’?” 

“ Who tole — what? 

With another look around, “Betsey — Fred?” 

“’Ow could she?” 

“ If she did. I’ll— ” 


CHAPTER VI. 


LAUNCHED UPON THE STREAM. 

HE day after the funeral Fred went down by the 



“L grave of his mother, and out across to Jones’s, to 
see Johnn}", and then down across the river at Atwater’s ; 
then, turning up the southern bank, went back to the 
little desolate hut, — the only home he had any mem- 
ory of. It was veiy lonely and silent in the Indian 
summer sunsliine. The door stood open, and, as he 
entered, he was surprised to find it stripped and empty 
of the poor and scanty things it had once contained. 
The hearth was cold, with the extinguished brands 
and dead ashes lying upon it. A few tattered rags, a 
broken chair and stool, and a few fractured earthen 
vessels, amid straw and dust, were all that remained 
within. How coldly and dumbly it all smote upon the 
childisli heart of the boy who had been so sorely tried, 
and was so incapable of understanding his own emo- 
tions ! The air and silence oppressed, almost suffocated 
him. He turned out, and, as he went, he closed the 
door and latched it instinctively", as if to shut in the 
impressions that had so smitten him. How still and 
lonely" everything lay" in the warm sun outside ! Fred 
looked about him, and went with a saddened face to 
the side of the river where his little canoe still floated ; 


( 28 ) 


LAUNCHED UPON THE STKEAM. 


29 


he thouglit of his two or three traps, set above, but 
somehow he did not care for them ; and carefully bal- 
ing the water from his boat, he loosed its fastening, 
and with his little paddle pulled himself across to the 
other bank. Here he landed ; and pushing his boat out 
again into the rapid current, bow down stream, ho 
abandoned it to its fate. As the mid-current took it, 
it shot around a turn, and Fred sprang up the bank 
just in time to catch a glimpse of it, through an open- 
ing, as it was swept forever from his sight. He looked 
where it had disappeared, and turned for a moment to 
the deserted cabin ; then, with sobs of pain, he passed 
into the woods with an instinctive but incomprehensive 
feeling that he was entering upon a new phase of life. 

His new friends, in their kindness, were concerned 
at his day’s absence, and greatl}^ relieved upon his 
return. The\^ found him a pleasant, cheerful boy^ 
apparently observing, and much interested in books, 
who modestly answered all questions, though disin- 
clined to talk much, and especially about his hither 
and mother. 

The next morning his father called for him, and said 
that he was to go with him down to Green’s. AYithout 
reply or question, Fred took his hat to accom[)an3’' 
him. With a word to his wife. Uncle Bill said to Sam 
that he would go with him. 

On their arrival at the hotel the^^ found the proprietor 
in the bar-room, whom Uncle Bill approached at once. 

“ Good morning, Mr. Green.” 

“ Good mornin’, good mornin’, IMisto vSkinner,” in 
soft voice, and with a very polite and not ungraceful 


30 


THP: POKTRAIT. 


bow. “ I hope 3'cr well ; and liow^s 3'er lad}’’ — an* the 
3^oung gents, this mornin’?** 

“ Veiy well,” indifferentl}'. “ Mr. Green — ** At the 
business address, the landlord stepped quickly and 
stealthily forward, with a wave of his hand to a group 
in a remote part of the room, as well as the world gen- 
erall}^, b}’’ wa}" of warning not to interfere. 

“You wish to speak to me?” in a low voice. 

“A moment, if 3^011 please.*’ Without further words 
he was conducted politely and obsequiously into the 
room where the interview with Sam Warden had oc- 
curred. 

“Be seated ; take a cheer, I beg 3^e.” 

“ No matter — about this bo}", this Fred ? — ” 

“What about him?” with a glance and a warning 
sweep of the hand. He bent low, and his voice sunk 
to an anxious whisper, as he asked : 

“ I feel an interest in him, and want to know what is 
to become of him,” with a straightforward look into the 
keen and tremulous C3 es of the landlord. 

A quick flash out to the right and left, with a slight 
twitch of the muscles at the corners of the e3"es, and a 
backward wave. 

“ Wery kind o* 3’e ; weiy, wery kind o’ 3^0 ; the poor 
boy needs frins,” with a tremor in his voice, and a 
movement of the e3^elids, as if to suppress a sudden 
revolt of the feelings. “ ’Ad I knowd, I’d a’ talked 
with ye ; but Sam cum to me and wanted me to take 
’im, an’ though ’taint the best place for ’im, I con- 
sented, ail’ he made this paper,” drawing a folded 
writing from a capacious leather pocket-book, carried 
in an inside pocket, which he handed to his visitor. 


LAUNCHED UPON THE STREAM. 


31 


“ I thought best to ’avc it in black an’ white.” 

Mr. Skinner saw endorsed on the back of it the omi- 
nous word “Indenture,” and below it, “Recorded in 
the records of Mantua Township, this 10th day of 
November, 1829.” Opening it, he found it pursued 
the prescribed formula of binding a minor. lie ran 
his e3’e on down, — “ until he is of the age of twcnt}’- 
one jrears ” ; “ not less than three months’ schooling 
each year until the age of eighteen ” ; “to be taught 
so much of arithmetic as includes the Rule of Three,” — 
which requirement had been placed in the Ohio Statutes 
by the Yankees of the Reserve. The indenture also 
provided, that on his reaching said age of twenty-one 
years, “that Green should pay him, the said Frederick 
Warden, the full sum of one hundred dollars current 
mone}^, and furnish him with one good freedom suit of 
fulled cloth.” Signed, Samuel Warden (his x mark), 
and acknowledged and witnessed as the law directs. 
Uncle Bill’s c^’e ran back to the descriptive parts, — 
“ Frederick Warden, £^ged about ten j^cars, born near 
Danville, K}’., Ma^^ 15th, 1819.” 

While Uncle Bill was carefully" studjdng this paper. 
Green, at times, threw his whole force into a look and 
attitude of the most intense interest, with an occasional 
glance and gesture to imaginarj" spectators not to inter- 
fere ; that it should be all right ; and occasional!}" he 
would incline an ear, as if tr^dng to hear what the silent 
reader and cogitator thought about it. 

“ Three months’ schooling each year,” said Uncle Bill, 
^ith his full voice, “ until the age of eighteen 3’ears,” 
and thus repeated several other provisions of the 
paper. 


S 2 


THE PORTRAIT. 


“Square Lyman — Lawyer L3mian of Ravenna — 
drawn it,” remarked Green, by wa3" of assurance of 
its correctness. 

“The paper’s all right,” said Uncle Bill, coldly, 
handing it back. 

“ Does the bo3' know of it? ” he demanded. 

“ I s’pose Sam’s told ’im ; no matter, ’e’ll find it out 
as — ” 

“ Soon’s he’ll want to know it,” interrupted Uncle 
Bill, regardlesss of the deprecating gesture of the land- 
lord. 

“ Call ’im in,” said Uncle Bill. 

With a deprecatory gesture to the imaginary specta- 
tors, as if to sa3", “ I’ll do it, and save all hard feeling,” 
the landlord stole out of the room, and a moment after 
stole in, followed b3" the wide-e3"ed, wondering bo3\ 

“ Ef I ma3^ be so bold ” — with great suavit3^, that 
had a little ring of self-assertion in the tone — said 
Green, “ I’m the bo3^’s master. You’ll rec’lect, pleas’.” 

“ Master ain’t a good word up.here,” said Uncle Bill, 
“and 3"ou’ll recollect that I’m one of the ‘Selectmen’ 
of Mantua Township, and live about a mile from here,” 
with a look that took nothing from the remark. 

“ Fredd3’,” he continued to the boy, “ 3’our father 
has placed 3’ou with Mr. Green to live. You’ll be a 
good boy, do whatever he tells 3^011, and he’ll be kind 
to 3’ou. You’ll let him come and see us occasionall3',” 
— to Green. “ Good-b3', Fredd3\ Good morning, Mr. 
Green.” Turning hastil3" away. Uncle Bill walked rap- 
idly out of the house, and, with a saddened face, away 
from it. 

“ Fredd3%” said Green to the boy, who stood with his 


LAUNCHED UPON THE STREAM. 


33 


eyes staring hard at the door, through which his friend 
had departed, with an expression like that with which 
he saw his canoe disappear ; “ Freddy ” — and the voice 
was soft and winning — “3-0 was alone with yer ma 
when she died ? ” 

The bo}^ looked wonderingly at his questioner, and 
moved a little from him. “ Yer’s alone with *er, 3"er 
fayther sa3’s.” 

“Yes sir, — Johnny and I.” 

“Did she say an3^thin’ to 3'er? leave any word, 
anythin’ about ycrself, or Johnn3% or 3’er pa?” Fred 
still stared at him Avith wonder in his wide, innocent 
e3’es, and without Avinking, until tears came into them, 
and ran over their lids. “ Nothin’, nothin’, Fredd}-? 
We’ll go out now, and look about.” An impatient ges- 
ture might have notified the observant shadows that it 
was not altogether right. 

The place was not new to Fred. He had been there, 
but not often. Once or tAvice he had come to look for 
his father, and a few times to get a small wooden bot- 
tle replenished. 

As he went out through the bar-room, he hurried and 
made a SAveep around a group at the bar, behind which 
stood Jake, Avith his hard, freckled, repulsive face. 
“’Ere, Fred, take this pitcher, an’ bring some fresh 
water * 3'e’ll ’ave ter work ’ere. I’ll put 3’e through. 
Do 3^e ’ear?” As the bo}" wonderingly took the pitcher, 
and went out, Jake added : “ If the ole man means ter 
’aA^e that little cuss lazin’ round, fishin’ an’ trappin’, he’ll 
find himself daml}" mistaken. I’ll make him ’urap.” 
Just then Fred came in, and placed the heavy pitchei 
& 


34 


THE PORTRAIT. 


on the bar. “ There now/* cried Jake, “ go*n bring in 
some wood, an* 1*11 tell ye what ter do next.** 

“You*d better take care,** said Israel Patterson, 
just drunk enough to be independent, “ he won*t stand 
much.** 

“What dam business *s that o* 3*ourn? Drink 3"er 
licker, an shet up, or I’ll — ** 

The landlord had stolen in, and his quick glance de- 
tecting none but the ordinaiy tipplers, — “Jake ! ” with 
a voice which made the decanters start on the shelves, 
and under which that 3'outh sunk to sullen silence. 
When Fred came in with the wood he gave him a 
quarter, and told him to go over to the store and biy a 
paper of tobacco, and when he returned with the change, 
told him to keep it. The bo^^ looked up wonder ingl}-, 
but laid the money down on the bar, and walked 
awa}^ in silence. 

“ Wal, if that don*t beat the devil ! ** exclaimed 
Jake, and all turned in surprise at him. As he walked 
awa}" the landlord repeated his gesture of uncertainty 
and warning. “ *E’ll larn better*n that,** he said. 

From the solitary life of his childhood, in the woods 
by the river, to that of boj* of all work in the stable 
and kitchen of a much frequented country" tavern, W’as a 
great change ; and Fred made it, and adapted himself to 
his new situation, with the plastic readiness of the 3’oung 
backwoods bo3\ Whatever ulterior views Green may 
have had in seeking the control of the bo}- , he evidently, 
at first, sought to gain his confidence and good-wili ; 
and although he did not spare him from the ceaseless 
round of chores, his manner was not unkind, and he 
often, in his stealthy, confidential way, seemed anxious 


LAUNCHED UPON THE STREAM. 


35 


to penetrate and mould the boy’s inner thought and na- 
ture. At such times Fred would turn upon him with 
his wide, open eyes, in seeming wonder, altogether 
puzzling to the wily nature of the man, who occasion- 
ally made a beckoning motion, as if asking attention, 
till he finally saw, or fancied that he saw, in those eyes 
distrust, and something like defiance. 

When Green moved into Mantua seven or eight years 
before, from the south part of the State, as he said, he 
was understood to be a widower, and was accompanied 
b}^ a middle-aged sister, a stout, coarse, dark woman, 
and his only child, the unpromising Jake ; the rest of his 
household consisted of hired men, and a 3^oung woman 
or two, as the exigencies of business required. Save 
these, few knew of the inside of his household and 
family, and they knew but little of it. His relations 
with outsiders were of a purely business character, 
which he conducted with a marked politeness of man- 
ner, and generally fairly. His wa3"s were said to be 
Southern — at any rate of a type different from the 
Yankee — and the marked success that attended his 
operations, conducted with much cautious enterprise, 
gained him the reputation of being long-headed and 
deep ; which qualities, viewed together with his success, 
inspired men with a certain respect for him, while his 
sly, stealthy wa3"s, and suavity, led his cool and calcu- 
lating neighbors to regard him with a wholesome dis- 
trust. His tools were of a st\de and fashion unknown 
in Yankee land, — immense hoes, and clumsy axes with 
straight handles, instead of helves ; and, harnesses 
sewed with leather thongs, he used to drive with one 


86 


THE PORTRAIT. 


line, mounted on a wheel-horse, and used words, and 
pronounced them, in a way unknown to down-country 
dialect. Men talked about him, yet nobody knew any 
thing positively discreditable to him, be^'ond the drink- 
ing and tippling he permitted upon his premises. 


CHAPTER VII. 


SALLY S VIEWS. 



N the morning after the advent of Fred, another 


interview took place, in the domain of Sally, be- 
tween that personage and her brother John. 

“Goin* ter change yer sign, I s’pose,” said the lady, 
indifferently. “ I see ye’ve taken a pardner. It’ll be 
Green an’ — ” 

“Shi-shi!” hissed John, in alarm, and turning to 
beat off intruders. “ What’s the good o’ names, when 
ye don’t know ’em.” 

“What’s the good o’ ’avin’ this young catamount, 
to tear yer eyes out ? I know mor’n ye think I do,” 
snappishly, like a woman. 

“ Ye do, do yer ? What d’ye know — come ? Didn’t 
the feller die, an’ warn’t ’e buried with ’is father? 
An didn’t ’is mother dig ’im up, an carry ’im oft' — 
come ? ” With a triumphant glance at the shadows. 

“ Yah-h-h ; an’ didn’t Betsey break ’er ’art for ’im ; an’ 
warn’t the money drownded in the river? — if I warn’t 
thar.” During the utterance of this sentence, the 
eftbrts of Green to prevent interlopers were quite 
frantic. 

“Sally! will ye never ’old yer tongue?” looking 
dangerous. 


( 37 ) 


38 


THE PORTRAIT. 


“Will 3"e give me the deed? Warn’t ye satisfied 
liein’ ’bout me?” 

“ That’s long ago. Av course ye knowd ye’d ’ave it. 
Wut sho’d I do with the boy? ” 

“ Send ’im adrift wi’ Sam, if yer afeard o’ ’im ; — its 
nothin’ to me.” 

“ Yis, to fioat ’roun an’ turn up nobod}^ knows when 
’er whar.” 

“Better turn up an}’^ whar than yere. Can’t ye see 
that ’e’s goin’ ter look like men o’ blood ? ” 

“ Who’s goin’ to see ’im j^ere ? if they do, can’t ’e 
be a come-b^'-chance o’ yers ? Think o’ Bill Con^^ers.” 

“ More lies about 3^er sister,” in a wearied, despair- 
ing tone. “An’ Jake says yer to edicate ’im ; an ’e 
reads a heap now. Yer’d better chuck ’im inter a 
‘ devil’s ’ole ’ som’ers ’bout 3^ere.” 

“ Sally ! Sally ! ” with a ghastly look round at the 
shadows, “what der 3-0 kno? That’s onl3^ a nigger, 
anyway. An’ then I ’as Sam on my ’an’s.” 

“ Sam won’t trouble nobody long ; only let ’im keep 
on.” 

“An’ if this chap sho’d take to wa3^s, bein’ ’bout the 
bar, who co’d ’elp it, yer know ? ” 

“Jest let ’im go ter school, and be made of b3" the 
sneakin’ Yankees roun* 3"ere, an* 3"e’ll see. Besides, who 
kno’s what Betsey may tole ’im.” 

“Do 3'er s’pose? — ” with a scared look around, 
“ but Betsej' knowd nothin’ — .” 

“She didn’t, eh? No wonder yer ’feard ; 3'e’d be 
wus cust if yer — ” 

“’Ush!” with the voice and manner with which he 
strangled Sam, and silenced Jake. 


sally's views. 


89 


“Wal,” said the persistent but cowed woman, “3^e 
alius 'ad yer way, an' what do I keer? But ye’ll see 
what’ll come o’ it.” 

Food, shelter, a place to sleep, safety to life and 
limb, with air to breathe, and room to exercise and 
grow in, are conditions in which young life will 
thrive and ph3^sical development progress. Nothing 
that breathes has such marvellous adaptability to all 
possible conditions as the human, and the young hu- 
man. 

Fred — in his little loft, his hard pallet, coarse but 
abundant food, and scant clothes ; in the stable, water- 
ing horses, riding them bareback with a halter, chop- 
ping and splitting wood, building fires, feeding the 
young cattle at a stack, rising early, working hard, 
and going to bed late — had the needed conditions of 
physical life, and his principal business, next after liv- 
ing, is to gi’ow. Thus with immense vitality and almost 
wonderful physical capabilities, inherited from a fine 
strain of men, or cropping out anew, as is sometimes 
the wont of seemingly capricious Nature, this isolated 
boy is to grow and thrive, be hardy and strong. 

And what of his heart, his soul, his affections, his 
moral nature ? Love is not so essential to the 3^oung. 
The realm of affection, of morals and spirit, develop 
later. He is not precocious. He will regretfully and 
tenderly remember his poor faded and dying mother, 
and once in a while start oflT and see little Johnny. 
Between him and his father the feeling was that which 
subsists between a man and young boy, thrown much 
together, but not the liking of a son for a father on 
Fred’s part. 


40 


THE PORTRAIT. 


The two nights and the day at Mr. Skinner’s had 
given him a new and strange glimpse of life, — of a 
home fall of warmth and love and plenty ; and how his 
heart hungered, at times, for it ! But it was not for him, 
and he did not think of murmuring, even to himself ; 
and finally, when he began to go to school, when he 
could snatch himself away, and saw the little troops of 
brothers and sisters come and go, glad and happ}-, he 
thought how very, very sweet it must be, and that some 
time, when he grew up, he would live in some pleasant 
place with little Johnny. But these things were not for 
him. Still he could not help looking hungrily into the 
faces of those happ}?^ children, going back alone to his 
round of chores, and his cold, dark, and solitary little 
room, with a feeling which he could not explain or com- 
prehend. 

At first he stood around and looked on, wistfully, at 
the sports of the other boys ; but, when invited, readil}" 
and gladly joined with them. It is marvellous how soon 
children get acquainted. In ten minutes they are the 
oldest of acquaintances, and in an hour the fastest of 
friends. The children at first thought him shy and 
distant, and there was something in his high looks like 
pride and coldness ; so that they were astonished to 
find how ready and glad he was to mix in their sports, 
and what a bright, cheery, and joyous nature he had. 
His teacher found him very docile, and eager to learn, 
but rather slow, very attentive to his books, and obser- 
vant of all the rules. In a week he became quite a 
favorite both with teacher and scholars. To Fred, his 
school and its associations were the opening up of a 
new life, — whole new realms of activity and enjoyment, 


sally’s views. 


41 


which lit up his hard, dreary surroundings, imparting 
to them new and varying interest, and developing the 
buoyant and impulsive hopefulness of his nature ; he 
was even heard to whistle and sing, and sometimes 
laugh, about the tavern. 

The fresh life of his face and manner were a new 
source of anxiety to John Green, who studied him with 
keener scrutiii}^ than before. 

“ There, what did I tell 3’e ! ” exclaimed the trium- 
phant Sally to the discouraged landlord, as the boyish 
notes came to him ; “ 3’e’ll see ! ” and John thought 
that he was getting glimpses. Fred was active and 
attentive to his many calls, and there was no cause for 
complaint ; 3^et complaints there were. It cannot be 
said that Fred felt anything like attachment for any of 
the famity, nor did he spend much time, save compul- 
sorily, in their presence. 

Sally he avoided on the general principles that had 
always, perhaps, governed most of his sex in reference 
to her. Jake he avoided on his own account, from a 
feeling of aversion. There w^as a difference of five or 
six 3"ears in their ages, and an irreconcilable difference 
in their natures. Jake disliked Fred from the begin- 
ning, and in a month grew to hate him, while Fred 
returned a hearty disfavor. 

It would be difficult to determine what were the feel- 
ings of the elder Green towards the bo}". He would 
have concealed them from himself had he known them, 
and that from the secretiveness of his nature. So 
accustomed was he to deceive and mislead others, to 
conceal his purposes and intentions, that he sometimes 
spoke in an undertone so profound that he was him- 


42 


THE PORTRAIT. 


self in doubt as to what he said, while his real inten- 
tion was often a matter of uncertainty'^ in his own mind. 

He seemed at times to be fascinated by Fred, and 
would furtively^ follow him about, taking all kinds of 
opportunities to steal upon and watch him. He usu- 
ally’’ addressed him in his soft and bland manner, and 
sometimes, without apparent cause, in a rough, coarse, 
almost brutal voice, in accordance with his nature ; 
and occasionally^ he seemed actually to fear him. He 
saw, or fancied he saw, in the boy^’s eyes a singular and 
strange expression, as if he thought of something, or 
remembered something, or knew of something; but 
sometimes it was fearless and defiant, and then it was 
arch and knowing again ; Green would look again, and 
the expression would be gone, nothing appearing in 
Fred’s face but the frank, innocent, open outlook of 
young boyhood. That did not please him much better. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


SIR WALTER. 



HE winter wore on, and was like a dawn of sun- 


-A- shine streaked with black to Fred. He was often 
kept out of school, usually reached it late, and always 
had to hurry home, — or to the place where he worked 
and ate and slept ; but he did not much mind the hard- 
ships. So the winter passed, and the spring came, and 
the snows melted, and the days grew long, and the 
roads muddy and deep, and travellers^ horses had to be 
groomed. The last day of school came, and the noisy 
urchins and little maidens divided up into groups for 
the last time, and went home ; and Fred, looking regret- 
fully at each as they passed off, went sadly to the 
tavern alone. It was not an attractive place, and few 
boys ever went there unless on errands, all being 
afraid of the landlord, and none of them liking Jake. 
Fred felt himself left to unrelieved work and endless 
chores, without pleasant companionship. Once in a 
while Uncle Bill called, or gave him a passing word, 
and a boy friendship had sprung up betw’een him and 
young Bill. Sometimes Fred saw Fenton at the store, 
but his position at the tavern was almost complete 
isolation from the neighborhood. 

One friend and companion had come to him in the 


( 43 ) 


44 


THE PORTRAIT. 


winter, between whom and himself had sprung up a 
tenderness and devotion beautiful in itself, and precious 
to the famished heart of the bo}". 

A gentleman had put up at the hotel, attended by a 
beautiful Newfoundland dog, a magnificent fellow, with 
great intelligent human eyes, and knowing, sagacious 
ways. The toes of his forefeet were slightly marked 
with white, and a singular oblong white circle on the 
upper part of his head, surrounding a spot of black, 
and a delicate white ring about his neck, united on the 
back in a knot of white, like a white ribbon tied in a 
flat, graceful way. He wore a collar, on which was 
engraved his name, — Sir Walter. 

By accident, a day or two before reaching Green’s, a 
carriage had been driven over one of his forefeet, and 
crushed it, so as to render him a cripple. His master 
took him into his carriage and brought him forward. 
At Green’s, Fred had devoted himself unremittingly to 
Sir Walter, on whose account the gentleman remained 
over a day or two ; and when he felt obliged to go on, 
the foot seemed to be too bad to admit of Walter’s 
attending him. So, after asking the permission of 
Green, the gentleman made a present of Sir Walter to 
Fred. Had he given him a princedom he could not 
have made him more proud and happy. Tears came 
into his eyes ; and kneeling down by Sir Walter, he put 
his boy arms about the dog’s neck, and hugged him in 
mute joy, while the grateful and aflfectionate animal 
looked up dumbly into the boy’s lifted face, as if he 
comprehended and returned his love, and with the half 
sad, pitying expression which is sometimes seen in the 
eyes of the nobler of that race. What a possession he 


SIR WALTER. 


45 


was ! What a world of love and care and human 
interest came to him ! Save his little canoe, and two 
or three traps, this was the sole thing he had ever 
possessed, and this was alive, — a dog, of all things 
that he had most longed for. With a moistened eye, 
the gentleman renewed his injunction to Green, accom- 
panied with a five-dollar bill for the extra care and 
room which Sir Walter might need until well again, 
and a kindly squeeze of Fred’s hand, and “ good-by old 
fellow ” to the dog, — drove away. 

Walter, whose race and form had never before been 
seen in that region, was an object of great curiosity in 
the neighborhood, and under the care and nursing 
which he received, in the course of three or four weeks 
he fully recovered. At first he was much petted by 
Jake, who often asserted his ownership over him, but 
the sagacious Sir Walter took a very hearty and 
natural dislike to him ; indeed, he exhibited no warmer 
attachment for the elder Green, whom, however, he 
treated with the sort of deference which intelligent 
dogs usually bestow upon the master of a house. His 
devotion to Fred was something marvellous, and was 
manifested in a grave human wa3\ He so far recovered 
as to be permitted to go at large before the school 
closed, and always insisted on attending his young 
master to school. Taking the books in his mouth, he 
walked gravely by his side to the school-house, and 
turning back from the door where he usually presented 
himself when school was out, with a chip, or stick, or 
straw in his mouth, and his head curbed in, as Fred 
came out to attend him home again. After several 


46 


THE PORTRAIT. 


battles royal with Sally, Sir Walter was permitted to 
sleep in the room with his master. 

When school closed, Fred had this one priceless 
friend and possession to brighten his world, and bless 
his otherwise lonely and loveless life. The end of the 
school brought an increase of work to him, and placed 
him in a more constant contact with Jake, who seemed 
to regard him with growing malevolence, and began to 
find opportunities to do him acts of unkindness and 
spite. As the youngest about the premises, Fred was 
the servant and menial of all ; and it was in Jake’s power 
not only to increase and multiply his chores, but to put 
various personal slights and indignities upon him, and 
the presence of Sir Walter seemed to present an 
incitement, as well as occasions for augmenting the 
poor boy’s annoyances. It was not quite prudent to 
kick or strike Sir Walter, but it was easy to shut him 
up, drive him out of the house or stable, and subject him 
and his master to many anno 3 ^ances and indignities. 
The position of a friend to Fred would have been very 
humiliating to a human being at Green’s : for a dog, 
it was quite intolerable. 

This state of things continued, and daily became 
more aggravated and sore. If Green saw or knew of 
it, as of course he did, he did not interfere, nor did 
Fred complain of it to him. Jake had never ventured 
upon any decided personal violence towards Fred, 
beyond rough, profane Avords, or an occasional push. 
1 hat, too, would have been dangerous in the presence of 
Sir Walter. 

Some time in May, when the threshers had finished 
the oats in the upper barn, and the boys were set to 


SIR WALTER. 


47 


clean them up, they were there alone, the younger 
turning the fanning-mill, and the elder with a scoop 
shovel feeding it. Jake, as usual, was growling and 
fretting and swearing at Fred and Walter, who was 
never far from his friend. The door being open from the 
barn floor into a granaiy, Walter went in there, which 
Jake observing, closed the door. This made Walter 
uneasy, and he whined to come out. When Fred 
heard him he sprang to open the door, but found that 
Jake had locked it, and withdrawn the ke}". 

“ There, dam ye ! ” exclaimed Jake, approaching him, 
with burning eyes and clenched hands. “ Tve owed 
ye a dam lickin’ a long time, an’ now I’m goin’ to give 
it to ye.” 

Though taken utterly by surprise, the bold and 
defiant attitude of his young enemy caused Jake to 
pause an instant ; and when he finally made a rush for 
the boy, he was met half way in a desperate grapple. 
He had underrated both the courage and strength of 
Fred, and found himself called upon to put forth all 
his force to overcome the suddenness and fury of the 
onset. The struggle was fierce, and superior weight 
and strength began to tell, when there was a crash of 
shattered wood and glass, which the combatants heard 
without heeding, a fierce growl, a black plunge, and a 
great muzzle fastened upon Jake’s neck ; the bully was 
torn from the sinking Fred as if he had been a rag 
baby, and lay writhing in the strangling jaws of Sir 
Walter. 

“Walter! Walter!” exclaimed Fred, springing to 
his enemy’s relief, and seizing the dog by his collar. 
At his voice, the docile animal released his hold, when 


48 


THE PORTUAtT. 


Jake sprang up and dashed out of the barn, not seriously 
injured. 

Unaccustomed to scenes of violence, the whole thing 
had come and passed so suddenl^^, that Fred stood 
amazed and excited, not only not knowing what to 
think, but incapable of thinking at all. He finally 
remembered to have heard the crash of the window of 
the granary, through which Walter had leaped when 
he came to his rescue, and he stepped out to examine it, 
followed by Sir Walter. He had just turned the corner 
of the barn when a gun was discharged near him ; and 
springing back, he came upon the fallen dog, within two 
paces of w'hom stood his infuriated murderer, with a 
devilish exultation on his face. 

“ There, God dam ye ! y ’ll never ’elp ’im agin.” 

Heedless of Jake, with a cry of anguish, as the earth 
darkened, the poor boy threw himself ui^on his wounded 
friend. Not outright was the noble Walter slain. 
Without a moan or whine, by a great efibrt he raised 
himself upon his forefeet, with his hinder parts, which 
had received the charge, lying helplessly on the ground, 
and looked with his great, tender, loving human e3"es, 
full of mute compassion, upon the now unfriended bo}", 
as if he was the only one to be mourned for, and 
tenderly licked his face, as if to show his und3dng 
attachment. 

“ Oh, Walter ! Walter ! Walter ! Oh, Walter ! Walter I 
Walter!” in broken, sobbing gasps, was all the poor 
boy could sa3’', as, with his arms around his d3dng 
friend’s neck, he sank with him upon the ground, wish- 
ing only to die with him. 

Anger and indignation throbbed back in the blood 


SIR WALTER. 


49 


of the passionate hoy, and he sprang up to take ven- 
geance on the slayer ; but it was silent and empty about 
him, with nothing but sunshine and the chippering cry 
of the returned swallows in the air. How hateful ever^’^- 
thing was ! Turning to his dying friend, with a great 
exertion he lifted him tenderly in his arms, and partly 
carrying and partly drawing him, got him within the 
barn, and placed him on a bed of straw. The grateful 
fellow seemed to understand the kindness, and looking 
tenderly in his master’s face, licked his hands. He 
made a low plaint, a sound such as that he used to 
make when he wanted to drink ; and springing for a 
bucket, Fred brought him fresh water from the pump, 
of which the poor animal drank eagerly. 

The weapon used was a shot-gun ; and so near was 
the miscreant, that the charge made a single ragged 
wound, which bled but little externally, but had shat- 
tered the spine, and destroyed the possibility of more 
than two or three hours of life to the noble dog, who 
lay with his sad e3^es upon his 3^oung master, with a 
shadow deepening in them, as if conscious of approach- 
ing death. The poor boy felt that he must die, and, in 
his desolation, he knew of no mortal to whom he could 
turn ; his only instinctive thought was to remain with 
his brave defender, who had sacrificed his life for him. 
Feeling a sort of shiver in poor Walter’s frame, the bo^^ 
brought a horse blanket fi*om the stable, and lying 
down by his dying friend, drew the blanket over both ; 
and clasping him about the neck with both arms, and 
drawing his head up to him, the wretched boy, burying 
his face in the long silky hair of Walter’s neck, aban- 
doned himself utterly to grief. Never before had the 
4 


50 


THE PORTRAIT. 


complete isolation and desolation of his life so come to 
him, as he lay in this rude barn, clasping the murdered 
form of the only thing that loved him, with the darkness 
of night falling over the earth, that now held no heart, 
nor home, nor hope for him. 

Green had been away ; and when he returned at a 
late hour, Fred was not there to take his horse. He 
had not milked the cows or fed the pigs, or brought in 
the wood, and Sally had not seen him at his supper ; 
nor was Walter about. Jake was hulking around the 
bar-room, more sulky than usual ; and, on inquir}-, said 
that he had left Fred at the upper barn with Walter. 
Thither the now alarmed and misgiving elders repaired, 
— Sally with a sick sensation at the heart, for she 
remembered to have seen Jake bringing his gun from 
that direction. 

A few rods brought them to the north door, which 
they found open ; and on pausing for a moment, they 
were startled by low, distressed sobs, that came from 
the dark mass which lay upon the floor near them. 

“ Bring a lantern, Sally,” said the alarmed brother, 
who stood at the entrance. A lighted candle was 
brought, the two entered the barn, and lifting the 
blanket, discovered the sobbing boy, with his arms 
clasped about the neck of the dying dog. 

“Fred! what is it?” cried the somewhat excited 
Green, while Sally shook with apprehension. 

“ He shot him ! ” cried the boy, starting up ; “ Jake 
shot him. He sneaked up behind him, and shot him 
like a coward.” 

The brother and sister exchanged glances. 

“ Are you ’urt?” asked Sally, doubtingly. 


HiR WALTER. 


61 


“ No. He didn’t have time to hurt me, when Walter 
took 'im. Oh, Walter ! Walter I Walter ! ” with a voice 
so pathetic that it even reached the hearts of his 
auditors, .and thi’owing himself again upon the dog’s 
neck. The presence of the intruders seemed to dis- 
turb the dying creature, and he made ineffective efforts 
to rise. “ Better put ’ira out o’ misery,” said Green, in 
a not ungentle voice, looking about the burn, as if for 
a bludgeon with which to despatch the dog. 

“You shall not touch him ! You shall not touch 
him ! ” exclaimed the boy, starting up, with desperate 
defiance . 

“ Don’t ’urt ’im, John ; it ’ll soon be over,” said the 
softened woman ; and whispering something to him, 
John went out of the barn, when Fred again laid the 
mass of his shining hair down, and it mingled with the 
silky mane of Walter. 

With unwonted tenderness the cold and blighted 
woman approached and knelt by them, and laying a 
hard, wrinkled, toil-worn hand on the head of either, — 
“ Pore, pore Freddy ! pore Walter ! ” and for a^ moment 
bowed her head to the great wave of womanly tender- 
ness that smote upon and overwhelmed her. Tlie voice 
reached the hearts of the boy and Walter; the first 
gave a cry of relieving anguish, and the latter, turning 
his tender eyes upward to her, feebl}’ licked the hand 
that caressingly slid down over his muzzle. 

Green just then returned to the barn, bringing a 
lantern and a basin of milk, which he offered to Fred’s 
lips. The boy took it, and attempted to attract W alter’s 
attention to it, placing it near his mouth ; the grateful 
brute looked at it, and turned his eyes back to the face 


52 


THE PORTRAIT. 


of the boy near his own. A slight rigor passed through 
his frame, and the love and light died in his eyes, 

A few minutes later, the womanized Sally unclasped 
the relaxed hands of Fred from his defender’s neck, 
and lifting him in her strong arms, bore him nearly 
insensible to the house ; while her brother, wondering 
at his own weakness, spread the blanket carefully over 
the lifeless form of Sir Walter, and closing up the barn, 
followed her. 


CHAPTER IX. 


MR. GREEN EXPLAINS, 



IHERE happened to be no guests at Green’s that 


-L night, and an unwonted quiet reigned over the 
premises. The next morning there were low words and 
whispers exchanged between the hired men and the 
young women. They had observed that Walter was 
missing, and the girl had heard a gun, and late in the 
night, she knew that Fred had been brought in from 
the barn. 

A rumor made its way to Delano’s store, and spread 
through the neighborhood, that Jake had the night be- 
fore shot Walter, and wounded Fred ; and at a pretty 
early hour Fenton, Uncle Bill Skinner, Chapman, De- 
lano, and others, with a constable, proceeded to the 
hotel together. 

Green received them with more than wonted suav- 
ity and deference, and seemed quite anxious about 
their several healths. He was interrupted by Uncle 
Bill, who inquired where Jake was, and also what had 
happened the night before. At that moment Jake came 
in, when the constable approached and arrested him. 

“’Owl What, gentleman? what is’t? asked Green, 
in alarm. 


( 53 ) 


54 


THE PORTRAIT. 


“ That’s what we came to find out,” said Fenton, de- 
cidedly. 

“ Jake’ll not be hurt,” said Uncle Bill, “ if he has 
hurt nobody. Where’s Fred and his dog?” 

“ Fred ? Somebody call Freddy,” with his assuring 
wave that it was all right. “You see I’s away, an’ the 
boys had a little trouble, an’ J ake shot the dog ; that’s 
all.” 

“That’s all, is it?” said Fenton, quite excitedly. 
“ How was it, Jake? ” 

“ Ye see,” said that young gentleman, sulkil}’, “ ye 
see, I’n Fred ’ad a little scuffle, an’ Fred told Walter 
to take me, an’ he kitched me by the throat ; ye can 
see the marks now ; ” pulling away a neckcloth, when 
quite decided marks were apparent. 

“ Look at ’em ! look at ’em ! gen’lem’,” said the de- 
lighted Green ; “ look at ’em, all round, gen’lem’ ! ” 

“ I shook ’im otf,” continued Jake, “ an’ shot ’im.” 

“ It’s a lie ! It’s a lie ! ” cried Fred, springing ints 
the room in his shirt and trousers, and confronting Jake. 
“ It’s all a lie ! We were at work in the upper barn, 
and he locked Walter into the granary, and then he 
said he owed me a dam lickin, an’ came at me, an’ I 
went at him, an’ he hit me here,” showing a mark near 
the shoulder, “ an’ we clinched, an’ he was getting me 
down, when Walter jumped through the window, 
an’ just as I was falling under, he jumped an’ took 
Jake by the throat, an’ dashed him down like nothin’, 
an’ would a’ killed him in a moment ; an’ I sprang an’ 
took ’im by the collar, an’ called ’im out, an’ Jake ran 
out the barn ; an’ then I remembered I heard the win- 
dow smash, an’ soon, as I thought, I started out to 


MR. GREEN EXPLAINS. 


55 


see what ^twas, an’ just as I got round the corner, I 
heard the gun, an’ I turned back, an’ there lay Walter.” 

A moment’s pause, in which Fred drew nearer to the 
sulky and cowed youth, and raising his hand, — “ You 
came up behind him without a word, and shot him, 
like a sneaking coward as 3"ou are.” Had a sculptor 
wanted a model of boyish indignation, denunciation, con- 
tempt and defiance, it stood before him, with his splen- 
did form drawn up and quivering, his fine head thrown 
proudly back, and the whole figure posed with all the 
muscles and veins starting in his bared neck, his sharply 
cut nostril dilating, and his great black eyes flash- 
ing. The last words came hissing, and were closed 
with a superb blow downward, with his right hand. 
There could be no question of his blood, however he 
came by it. 

A look of amazed admiration greeted this rapid narra- 
tion, and splendid burst. 

“What do 3"OU say to that?” demanded Fenton of 
the silent 3"outh. 

“ What does he say? ” exclaimed Fred. “ Bill said 
that he had asked him to help him skin him ! ” His lips 
trembled and quivered now ; and la^dng his finger on 
the arm of Jake, — “You toueh him ! 3^011 touch him ! ” 

“ Freddy, Freddy,” exclaimed Green, interposing be- 
tween the boys, “he sha’n’t touch ’im ! he s’ll be buried 
like a human bein’.” 

Uncle Bill proposed to examine the barn, to which 
Green at once led the way, followed now by the some- 
what numerous party, Jake attended by the constable. 
The granary was found locked, and Jake reluctantly 
produced the key from his pocket, when it was found 


56 


THE PORTRAIT. 


that the window, some six feet from the floor, had been 
carried out, as if by a flying leap, and there, near the 
corner, was the blood, where Walter had fallen. 

The eager and compassionate men gathered around 
poor Walter, from whom the blanket was removed, and 
RTondered over and admired his splendid proportions, and 
again and again went over with the astonishing sagacity 
of the imprisoned dog, which led him to divine the dan- 
ger of his master, and the agility, strength, and courage 
with which he came to his rescue. “ It’s a pity that 
Fred called him off,” said Fenton, in a decided voice. 

“What if Walter had not been here?” asked Uncle 
Bill. “ And he won’t be here any more,” remarked 
Chapman. 

These comments were made in the presence of the 
Greens. On their return to the house, — 

“ I know what yc think, gen’lem’,” said the elder, 
“ it’s nat’ral, but you needn’t be afeard ; Jake’s to 
blame, an’ ye may prosecute ’im, and send ’im to jail 
if 3"e wish. Wc’s raised different, we’s ’ad no lamin’, 
and Jake’s mother died amost as soon’s ’e was bornd ; ” 
and a quiver of real feeling shook the man’s voice, and 
played on his lips. 

“No wonder she died, when she saw what she’d 
done,” remarked the unmoved Fenton to Uncle Bill. 

“ Gen’lem’,” said Green, “ let me see Misto Skinner, 
Misto Fenton, Misto Delano, and Misto Chapman for a 
moment ; ” and followed by these parties, he led the way 
to the room where we have seen him before. After 
closing the door, and dropping the curtains, and with 
many protesting glances and gestures against all in- 
terference or listeners, he began in words that he could 


MR. GREEN EXPLAINS. 


57 


not himself hear, and finally, when heard, in language 
so ambiguous that no meaning was conveyed, to com- 
municate some secret touching the birth of Fred. 
What it really was, it would be impossible to sa}’. 
The impression finally produced was, that that young 
gentleman was a near relative of his own, and a nephew. 
It was a secret confided to their honor. The father 
was of high blood, in the South, and no questions must 
be asked. lie made this explanation that they might 
see how safe Fred, who was ignorant of this fact, must 
be with his nearest of kin. “ His own flesh an’ blood, 
gen’lem’,” said Green, with an assuring look, and ges- 
ture to outsiders, that it was of course, now, all right. 
A few words among the gentlemen themselves, and 
their minds concurred that there could be no occasion 
, for further interference. No complaint had been made, 
and no warrant issued, and the matter had better drop 
where it was. 

On their way back to the bar-room they passed Sally, 
whose tall, robust frame and dark marked and masculine 
features seemed to confirm the story they had just heard, 
not improbable in itself, and which so fully explained 
some things which before seemed mysterious to them. 

On their return to the bar-room Uncle Bill remarked 
that the matter had been fully talked over, and that 
Mr. Green had given them the most satisfactory assur- 
ances that Fred should be well used, and that they 
thought nothing could be gained by any action in the 
premises. 

Mr. Green then placed some choice liquors and 
cigars upon the bar, and in the most gracious way in- 
vited all to participate, Jake was released from cus- 


58 


THE PORTRAIT. 


tody, and the next hour was very convivial. It was 
observed that Sam Warden, though present, contented 
himself with chewing the end of an unlit cigar. 

Late in the afternoon, by a bunch of barberr}’’ bushes, 
under which a deep and shapely grave had been dug, 
stood Fred and Sally and John Green. Sam Warden, 
and Bill, the hired man, brought a rough box, in which 
was the body of the murdered Sir Walter, which they 
lowered into the grave. Fred dropped some locks of 
hay carefully upon the box, and stood intently watch- 
ing them as they filled it. When the work was finished, 
it seemed to him as if the warmth and light of life had 
passed from the earth. 

That night a long, earnest, and at times bitter, de- 
fiant, and threatening interview occurred between John 
and Sally, ending in a seeming acquiescence of the 
latter with her brother’s wishes. 


CHAPTER X. 


A WOMAN AFTER ALL. 



'uitter, tossing, burning, delirious 


da3"s, wliic\ ran into weeks, lay poor Freddy 
in the grasp of a brain fever. Young Doctor Moore 
attended him with persistent determination, and the 
tenderness and unwearying devotion with which Sally 
watched and nursed him ga>e fatal confirmation to 
the confidential communication of her brother on the 
morning referred to in the last cnaptsr. She permitted 
nothing to reach him, save from hei own hand, or that 
of Dr. Moore. His great vitality and strong constitu- 
tion brought him through ; and, as be came throbbing 
back to life, he was conscious only of long blanks, witli 
here and there a snatch of old-time memory, - - the hut 
by the river, his pale mother, his little boat shooting 
out of sight, with wondrous visions of a beautiful 
woman bending over and kissing him, and calling him 
names that he had never heard before. 

When he grew strong, and went down, Jake had 
gone. So odious had his conduct made him, that his 
politic father had found it wise to send him away from 
the tavern, — to Kentucky, Fred was told. 

The pony had been brought up from the farm, and 
was waiting until Fred was well enough to ride ; better 


( 59 ) 


60 


THE PORTRAIT. 


clothes were put on him, and somehow he found that a 
change had come to him. So sweet and exquisite were 
the sensations of returning health and coming strength, 
and so childish and weak did he find himself, in his 
wants and whims, as well as in his limbs and body, 
that he almost felt as if he was growing up anew, and 
too fast to be strong and lasting. 

When he went out it was midsummer. He heard the 
mowers whetting their sc3dhes, and saw the harvesters 
with their grain cradles going about for jobs. He rode 
out, and got the fragrance of the new lia^", and saw the 
dark, rustling corn ; and the grass was diying on his 
poor mother’s grave. He rode down to the river, and 
over to the Centre, and up to Mr. Skinner’s ; and some- 
how, eveiywhere, there was a change. People seemed 
curious to see him, and looked at his poiy'-, but also 
seemed changed to him. Even at Mr. Skinner’s, they 
did not ask him to sta^^, or to come again. People 
seemed to look at him, and turn and exchange looks, 
as if they meant something. So, as the consciousness 
of the change grew on him da^^ b}^ da}", he finall}" asked 
Sail}", whom he had come to love very much. She 
seemed shocked and hurt, and finally told him that he 
must not mind it, that he was growing older, and was 
changing, and that he would change more. These 
people were cold and curious, she said, and not like 
their people ; some time they would go South ; and he 
w"anted to know about that country, and she told him 
stories of it. 


CHAPTER XL 


A. NEW PENTECOST — ITS APOSTLE — THE NEW EVANGEL 
AND PROPHET. 

A FRESHENING in the religious sensibilities 
in that far-off time, among a people whose 
sojourn in the Ohio wilderness had freed them some- 
what from the mere conventional trammels of habit 
and thought, had taken place, and was still agitating 
the common mind. 

Strong, earnest, and somewhat rude men, with the 
zeal of the apostolic day, had stood forth among the 
people, and reproclaimed the message of Peter at Pen- 
tecost : “ Repent, and be baptized, every one of you, 
in the name of Jesus Christ, for the remission of sins, 
and ye shall receive the gift of the Holy Ghost.” 

Men heard it with amazement. It struck them with 
the force of a new revelation, and they could hardl}’ 
believe that it was quoted aright. Many doubted, and 
shook their heads ; it was heretical and schismatic, 
this unclothed word, preached with the fervor of a new 
doctrine. Many gladly received it, and were baptized ; 
and new associations were organized, without other word 
or formula than the New Testament. Much of the old 
spirit of sweetness and love and charity prevailed 
Among them, calling themselves, as they did, “dis- 
( 61 ) 


62 


THE PORTRAIT. 


ciples,” and with one accord they were much given to 
assembling themselves together, seeking to practise the 
rites and follow the usages of the first disciples, so far 
as the wide difference in the conditions of the ages 
and peoples permitted. Feeling certain that they had 
embraced the full gospel in its simplicity and purity, 
this people could not doubt that they had one and all 
received the fruition of the promise. It was gravely 
discussed and hoped that, with a genuine Christian 
growth, all the promises and privileges of the prim- 
itive Christians might be realized, — the gift of tongues, 
prophec}^, and healing the sick ; and many looked, as 
well they might, to a full and complete restoration of 
all these gifts and graces, and high communings. 

The accepters of these restored views included many 
men of consideration through the country generally; 
and among them, in Mantua, the younger Atwater, the 
Snows, Seth Carman, and others, with the Reudolphs 
of Hiram, and man}" persons of consideration in the 
various towns. While the movement which produced 
this awakening revived the zeal and fervor of the other 
sects, and led to feebler revivals among them, singu- 
larly enough, it was thought that they did not look 
complacently upon the uprising of the disciples, whom 
the}" rather contemptuously called “ Campbellites,” and, 
in Portage County, “ Rigdonites.” 

Among all the preachers whose fervor and zeal had 
re-lighted some of the dim or extinguished torches and 
tapers of Christian faith in Northern Ohio, Rigdon 
stood preeminent. Then thirty-two or three years of 
age, he was in the first maturity of his remarkable 
powers as a popular preacher. Of stout, compact, and 


A NEW PENTECOST, ETC. 


63 


vigorous frame, endowed with wonderful vitality, with 
a short neck, large, well-formed head, and good face. 
Nature had given him a wonderful command of the 
powers to persuade and move men. He had learning 
enough to save him from the charge of being illiterate, 
with a fervid imagination, and copious language ; with 
large veneration, and a love of worship, he was stinted 
in the moral make-up. Bold, skilful, and adroit, had he 
been capable of a lofty purpose, he might have become 
a religious reformer, like Savonarola; as it was, he 
became the apostle of a new delusion, that so gro- 
tesquely caricatured Christianity, that even the rev- 
erent regard it as a fit theme for sarcasm and ridicule ; 
and which, without the aid of Rigdon^s powers of elo- 
quence, and persuasion, and mastery of the weaknesses 
of human nature, would have perished in its miserable 
infancy. Rigdon had boldly preached that the early 
gifts to the churches would again be restored to it. 

In the autumn of 1830, rumors had already reached 
the Mantua settlements of the new revelation that had 
been made to an obscure young man in Manchester, 
Ontario County, N. Y. ; stories of the angel, the golden 
plates, the opening of the side hill, of miracles and 
marvels, were rife among them. Suddenly it was 
announced that the Prophet, with his brother and the 
three witnesses, had arrived in Hiram, and were at the 
Johnsons, near where the college building now stands ; 
that a miracle had been wrought on the person of Mrs. 
Johnson, whose withered arm had been restored, in the 
presence of the Rev. Sidney Rigdon and others, and 
that Rigdon had become a convert. 

It was said that, in a meeting of a few, it had been 


64 


THE PORTRAIT, 


announced that a wonderful manifestation would be 
vouchsafed, and that, at the time, the Prophet, who 
was usually silent, and spoke only upon spiritual com- 
pulsion, had broken forth in a prophetic rhapsody, at 
the end of which he turned to Mrs. Johnson, who, as 
was well known, had for years suffered with a withered 
arm, usually carried in a sling, and bade her stand 
forth ; that she arose, and thereupon he commanded 
her to stretch forth her arm, and she did, and behold 
it was fully restored ! It was further reported that 
others spoke in tongues, and that their words were 
rendered by others ; that Rigdon declared himself con- 
vinced, and gave in his adhesion to the Prophet. 

It is difficult to comprehend the intense excitement 
and commotion produced b}" the tales of these marvels. 
Especially were the New Disciple churches shaken by 
the course of Rigdon ; and all the more so, when it was 
known that he in no way changed or varied from his 
old faith and preaching, and that the new revelation 
was but a supplement of the old, — a realization of the 
pouring out of the spirit in these last days. It was 
also said that the text of the new and marvellous book 
explicitly sustained the special views and dogmas of 
their churches. 

Those outside of all church organizations, as well as 
the members of established sects, were under a degi’ee 
of excitement which cannot be appreciated at this 
remote time. Indeed, for the most philosophical rea- 
sons, the non-professors, the negatives, are often the 
more easily taken, and are in some sort predisposed to 
become the victims of new religious dogma. 

Very soon it was announced that the Prophet and his 


A NEW PENTECOST, ETC. 


65 


proselytes and witnesses would hold a meeting at the 
South School-house, in Mantua, afternoon and even- 
ing. The room was large ; but, long before the hour 
appointed, it was packed, while hundreds stood out- 
side, notwithstanding the cold of a late November day. 

The Prophet and his party came over from Hiram, 
and, muffled in cloaks, made their way through the 
yielding crowd into the building, and occupied an 
elevated platform, specially prepared. Nothing could 
exceed the eagerness of the crowd to obtain a sight of 
the Prophet. What a temptation to turn aside from 
my little tale to philosophize upon the strange night- 
side of human nature, that allies it so helplessly to 
marvels and quackery in medicine, and hopelessly to 
clouds and mists in religion ! The Prophet, stepping 
upon the platform, uncovered, turned, and, stretching 
his hand over the hushed crowd, said, “ Peace be with 
you ! ” and sat down. These words were uttered, not 
without dignity, in a deep and not unpleasant voice ; 
and, in the wrought and unhealthy condition of mind 
of the excited multitude, the words and action pro- 
duced a deep impression. 

The Prophet was then about twenty-five years of age, 
and nearly six feet in height ; rather loosely but power- 
fully built, with a perceptible stoop in his shoulders. 
The face was longish, not badly featured, marked with 
blue eyes, fair blond complexion, and very light yellow- 
ish fiaxen hair. His head was not ignoble, and carried 
with some dignity ; and on the whole, his person, 
air, and manner would have been noticeable in a 
gathering of average men. He was attired in a neat- 
fitting suit of blue, over which he wore an ample cloak 
5 


THE PORTRAIT. 


of blue broadcloth, which he threw back, exposing his 
neck and bosom, — all with a simple and natural 
manner. 

At his left, sat his fair-haired 3'ounger and slighter 
brother Hiram, the one redeeming strand in the dark 
web then fabricating; his face was almost beautiful, 
with the rapt adoration with which he regarded the 
Prophet. On his right sat Rigdon, and behind them 
the three witnesses of the presence of the golden plates, 
of their delivery, with the silver-framed crystals, the 
ancient “ Urim and Thummim,” the spectacles through 
which alone could the characters be read — to the 
shining Messenger Moroni, and his flight with them 
from earth — the youthful, handsome, and dainty Cow- 
dry, the rough, homely, and honest looking Harris, and 
the stolid, meaningless face of Whitmer. 

The awful presence of the Prophet had of itself im- 
posed upon even the most sceptical ; and when Rigdon 
arose as the spokesman, it was in a hush of the pro- 
foundest expectation and awe. His effort, masterly for 
its seeming want of art and simplicity of language, 
was devoted to a summary of the new revelation, its 
reasonableness and proofs. In his citations and appli- 
cation of Scripture texts, he was ingenious and plaus- 
ible. When he came to the living witnesses, he called 
first Oliver Cowdiy, whose statement was clear and 
explicit, and fully confirmed by the others. When 
they sat down, he challenged any man to produce the 
same quantity, and as high quality, of evidence to sup- 
port the authenticity of the received Scriptures. He 
closed with the assertion of the miracle wrought on 
the person of Mrs. Johnson, in his presence, in confirm- 


A NEW PENTECOST, ETC. 


67 


ation of which, at his call, that lady stepped upon the 
platform. Many present recognized her, and knew the 
crippled condition of her arm. At his bidding, she 
removed her shawl, and extended and moved, in various 
ways, it and its fellow, both seeming to be in a perfectly 
healthy condition. At this exhibition an intense sen- 
sation ran through the crowd, that several times 
threatened to break out in irrepressible excitement. 
But the deep voice of the Prophet was heard rebukingly, 
“ Peace, be still ! ” at which the eager, pressing crowd 
bent backward like summer grain before a wind. Then 
Rigdon, with a loud voice, proclaimed : 

“ Go your way, and tell what things 3^ have seen 
and heard, how that the blind see, the deaf hear, the 
lepers are cleansed, the lame walk, the dead shall he 
raised; to the poor the gospel is preached ; ” and sat 
down in a profound silence, which remained unbroken 
for a moment, when it was announced that in an hour 
Mr. Rigdon would preach at the same place, after 
which the rite of baptism would be administered to 
believers who had not been immersed according to the 
gospel, as alwa3’s preached by him. Then the Prophet 
and his party passed out amid the most respectful 
silence of the audience, mau}’^ of whom retained their 
places during the interval before the promised services. 

At the hour, the house was, if possible, more crowded 
than during the afternoon. When the Prophet and his 
party resumed their places, Rigdon arose, and reading 
a simple revival hymn, uttered a fervent prayer, read 
one of his favorite and well-known texts, and, as was 
his wont, dashed headlong into his subject. It was the 
old awful story of the lost and ruined without light or 


68 


THE PORTRAIT. 


hope, and the old and grand expiation, the offer of fest 
and bliss on the simplest and easiest condition; the 
sweeping downward of time, the devious courses of 
men, the mingling of traditions with the golden strands 
of truth, the need of a new vindication of the truth, 
and the vindication of the ways of God to men. 

He was never more thoroughly master of himself, 
never held his subject with ‘a firmer grasp, and never 
had his audience more completely in his power. His 
mastery of the passions and sympathies was perfect ; 
and the almost awful stillness with which he was heard, 
was at times interrupted by low moans and heart- 
broken sobs. He uttered the old message of Peter, 
and closed with a fervid and passionate appeal to the 
lost and ruined, to acknowledge and obey the gospel. 

When he ceased, men still bent eagerly forward to 
catch the next accents, — when the deep voice of 
the Prophet broke over the expectant throng : 

“ The Spii’it and the Bride say. Come. And let him 
that heareth say. Come. And let him that is athirst, 
come. And whosoever will, let him take the water of 
life freely.*’ 

At once, spontaneously, a large number of men 
and women from all parts of the room arose, and made 
a movement forward in response to the demand, when 
Ridgon, as had been announced, and was his custom, 
passed out with his party, and collecting the new con- 
verts, extemporized flambeaux and torches, conducted 
them to the margin of the neighboring creek often re- 
sorted to for such a purpose, followed by a procession 
of several hundreds. As they reached the dark, wintry 
stream, suddenly a brilliant flame burst up from the 


A NEW PENTECOST, ETC. 


69 


opposite bank, burning with a strong, clear, steady light 
over the scene. Unexpected as this was, it hardly 
excited surprise ; and had the dead arisen, many would 
have regarded such a marvel as quite in the order of 
events. 

Among the many who pressed lorward to receive the 
rite, were John and Sally Green ; and so the new 
evangel was preached, and so was it received. 


CHAPTER XII 


IT IS A PITY, 


HE next morning a group at the store were talk- 



-L ing over the events of the night before. The 
Prophet, his person, powers and designs were discussed, 
as also the relation of Rigdon with him, and the prob- 
able results. 

“ If this new gospel can convert and hold old 
Green,” said Uncle Bill, “ I’ll admit it has claims over 
the old dispensation.” 

“That would prove nothing,” contemptuously re- 
marked Fenton; “genuine grace, like good liquor, 
would be wasted on him. Universal salvation wouldn’t 
reach him.” 

“ I think,” said Chapman, “ it would ’a been well to 
have let him soak awhile.” 

“ There ’d been no danger of his drowning,” contin- 
ued Fenton, “ for if there was ever a man born to l)e 
hanged, it’s him.” 

“I suspect,” observed Uncle Bill, “that old Sally 
had something to do with it. I’ll believe in her conver- 
sion. They say, in fact, she’s been a changed woman 
ever since Fred’s fight with Jake.” 

“ So I’ve heard,” said Fenton, “ and I don’t under- 
stand it at all, if what Green said was true. If she’s 


( 70 ) 


IT IS A PITT. 


71 


Fred’s mother, she of course knew it before that, and 
they say that she always hated him before.” 

“ There’s no knowin’ by what Green says,” replied 
Chapman ; “ he’s like Delano’s watch, here, — the only 
certain thing you ever can tell by that is, that it is not 
the time that his turnip says ’tis.” 

“ Don’t compare my watch with Green,” said Delano, 
laughing with the others, “for it will point at some- 
thing directly, while one really never can tell what 
Green does point at.” 

“I wonder if they put Jake in?” asked Fenton. “I 
see he’s back again. The washing would have done 
him good, anyway. He don’t look as if he had been 
washed since the flood.” 

“And then he carried an umbrella,” added Chap- 
man. 

“ I should ’a thought old Sally would ’a taken Fred 
in,” remarked another. 

“ Fred wouldn’t go,” said^Uncle Bill. “Though a 
queer, strange boy, he knows mor’n the whole on ’em.” 

“ What a pity ! ” said Fenton. “ These chaps are 
always as smart as steel ; there’s never but one mis- 
take about them. In a year or two he’ll take care 
of Jake, and all the rest on ’em. — What a pity ! ” 

“It is a pity,” commiseratingly remarked Uncle 
Bill ; “ of what use is strength, and good looks, and 
learning, and even money, to this poor boy ? He feels 
it now, though he don’t know, and could not under- 
stand it. Even these Green’s were so sensitive that 
they left the South an’ came away here among us Yan- 
kees, that they hate as — as — ” 

“ Sam Warden does water,” suggested Chapman. 


72 


THE PORTRAIT. 


“ Yes,” continued Uncle Bill, “ and only to escape 
this shame, and it followed ’em, as it always will ; and 
this ho3"’ll grow up under its shadow, and be dwarfed 
and warped and made crooked by it. None but the 
naturals of kings and nobles, in countries where their 
vices have made such things common, ever escape, and 
the fame and greatness of such men always disappear 
when we learn that fact ; we see nothing but the ugly 
blot.” 

“ It’s in the nature of things,” said Fenton. “When 
we don’t know how to explain a thing, we alwaj's refer 
it to the inexplicable ‘ nature of things.’ But think how 
unjust it is ! We don’t think the less of the man the 
most guilty ; we condemn the woman, though we al- 
ways feel an interest in her, who is often scarcely to 
blame ; while the child, the onlj" innocent one, and who 
can by no possibility be in fault, we at once loathe, 
abhor, and outlaw. What a hero this boy was ! We 
would have fought for him in a moment ; and 3"et, at 
a word from that darn’d, lying old scoundrel, we went 
and drank his liquor, and passed off without a word 
or thought of the boy. Not a man of us would ’a 
touched him; and I swear,” growing excited, “I be- 
lieve he lied about it all the time. There’s some infer- 
nal mystery about it after all.” 

“Does the suspicion of this change ^^our feelings 
towards this bo^^ ? ” asked Delano. 

“ Not as I know of, although I am ashamed of the 
feeling.” 

“While I think the feeling is natural,” said Uncle 
Bill, “ I think it is unworthy and unmanly. It never 
came home to me before, and I am ashamed to admit 


IT IS A PITT. 


73 


that it has influenced me, in common with the rest of 
you.” 

“How did it get out?” asked Fenton. 

“ I don’t know,” replied Chapman ; “ I told my wife, 
because she ought to know.” 

“ Exactly,” answered Fenton ; “ and if she ought to, 
everybody else ought to, and what ought to be for once 
was, and is. I had no wife to tell, and before I had 
a chance to tell anybod}" else, everybody knew it. It’s 
a great pity — ” 

“ That you did not get a chance to tell it? ” asked 
Uncle Bill. 

“ William Skinner,” replied Fenton, a little decidedly, 
“ we humans are a low, depraved, malicious, uncharit- 
able set, and I would be glad to believe in the fall and 
original sin.” 

“And have a devil to lay things to, which would be 
a hand}^ get-ofi*. David Fenton, I prefer to think that 
we wretched humans began very low, and are certainly 
and surely very slowly working our way upward, and 
we bring with us the stains of our savage wallow. 
For one, I’m sorry that we have not reached a level 
where this poor boy could have found rest and friends 
and home, and where his misfortune, redeemed from its 
odium, would have so appealed to our sympathies and 
sense of justice, that he would in some sort have found 
compensation, — and that’s the pity.” 

“ Uncle Bill,” said Fenton warmly, “you’re a Chris- 
tian philosopher, notwithstanding what you sometimes 
say. For though you reject Christianity, it has not 
rejected you ; — its beautiful spirit, — for, mock as you 
will, it is beautiful. I, who sometimes swear — right- 


74 


THE PORTRAIT. 


eously, of course — say this : its beautiful spirit pen- 
etrated and fashioned the sources of your nature, how- 
ever unregenerated theologicallj^ speaking, that may 
be, and changed the atmosphere you breathe till you 
have a desire to be higher and better than we were 
born, and work for that. The regard in which we hold 
this poor boy is a prejudice ; it is unworthy, but it is 
powerful. It is below the level of intelligent discus- 
sion, and cannot be reasoned with. It is universal, and 
cannot be escaped from. It is, as we say, natural, and 
cannot be overcome ; and, once again, it is a pity, and 
that is all that can be said.*^ 

It was a pity, and pitiable now as then. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


A PRINCE OP THE HOUSE OP JUDAH. 

I N that inner room of Green's, for all the afternoon, 
sat the Prophet and Rigdon, and John Green, who 
seemed to have been at the confessional ; and now pale, 
abject, and cowering, on his knees, with his hands 
clasped, and not daring to raise his eyes, with his 
blanched and tear-stained face ghastly in its wretched- 
ness, he tremblingly awaited sentence, — whether it 
was to consign his body to a jail and death, and 
his soul to perdition, or both to earthly penance and 
contrition. 

“ Arise," said the Prophet ; “ it doth not yet appear 
what the spirit shall command. Withdraw." The poor 
wretch proceeded towards the door. 

“ One moment, — does she your sister know ? " 

“ Not all. She 'spicions a 'eap." 

“ Go and bring in Oliver, the scribe." 

Green returned with that worthy, who served the 
Prophet as a secretary, and who now, in the presence of 
Green from his chief's dictation, reduced a lengthy state- 
ment to writing ; a magistrate was brought in, and in his 
presence Green prefixed his mark to it, and acknowl- 
edged it to be his free act and deed. The justice sub- 
scribed it as witness, when it was sealed up, receiving 
( 75 ) 


76 


THE PORTRAIT. 


an impression from a seal ring, worn by the Prophet, 
who handed it to Cowdry, and all withdrew but Smith 
and Rigdon. 

“And so the Mammon of unrighteousness is made 
to redound to the glory of the Most High,” said Smith, 
with mock solemnity, his blue eyes twinlding with im- 
mense satisfaction. “Sid, this’s a devilish good strike. 
We’ll take this poor cuss and relieve him of his sins, 
that is, his money, so that he’ll have nothing to do but 
to lay up treasures in heaven, — eh, Sid ? you see, he 
can’t complain, his tongue’s tied. He shall be our 
servant, our ox, our ass, and see his hoards put to 
goodly, if not godly, uses, and this shall be to him 
instead of the law of the Lamanites. He shall be 
doomed to ten years’ penance and hard labor.” 

“ And his sister, Jo? ” 

“ She’s a knowing one. She must go with us, too. 
It’ll do to keep our eye on her.” 

“ And the boy ? What of him ? It will not do to let 
him go, — something might come of it if he does.” 

The Prophet, who had dropped, as was his wont, his 
prophetic mantle when with his confidential ministers, 
was really kind at heart, and this question posed him. 

“This boy,” continued Rigdon, who was not then 
prepared to depart utterly from all recognition of nat- 
ural law, “ would seem to have some claims, at least, 
on his father’s money.” 

“ That’s so, though we can’t admit them very fully,” 
answered Jo ; “ let’s have him in, and John and Sall}^, 
and -settle it at once, Sid.” 

At Rigdon’s summons, the parties were soon before 
them, — John cowering and fawning, Sally sad-faced, 


A PRINCE OF THE HOUSE OF JUDAH. 


77 


collected, and with a restful look ; and Fred wondering, 
open-eyed, and diffident, but without a' particle of fear. 
He had fully recovered ; his face was bright, and his 
long, wavy black hair hung negligently about his face, 
and down his neck, with a carelessness that would have 
taken the eye of a painter. 

The eye of the Prophet rested kindly upon him. He 
placed his hand on his shining hair, and shook him 
by his firm shoulder, regarding his promising figure, 
and frank, handsome face, and open, fearless brow, with 
approving admiration. 

“ It is a goodly youth,” he said at length, “ a child 
of the lords of the Lamanites. He shall become a 
prince of the house of Judah. Clothe him in fine 
raiment, and let him be skilled in all the knowledge of 
his fathers, and come in and go out before the Lord. 
And he shall wax, and become a mighty man, and 
a great captain, and in the great day will lead the 
hosts of the Lord to battle against the Lamanites and 
the Gentiles, and shall prevail. So let it be.” 

“And for you, man of guile” — turning to John, who 
cowered before him — “into whose heart temptation 
came, that in the end God might be glorified, go forth, 
to toil diligently with thy hands. Thou shalt care for 
the herds and swine. Be discreet with thy tongue, 
penitent and patient in thy heart, constant in prayer, 
and diligent in works of repentance ; if, haply,” and 
rising to his full height and extending his arm, “ if, 
haply, in the fulness of th}^ years, God shall pardon 
and give thee rest. So let it be.” 

The last sentences were pronounced with a solemnity 
and awe that impressed even Rigdon, who looked for a 


78 


THE PORTRAIT. 


moment as if he believed that a real coal from the high 
altar had touched the Prophet. John shrank murmur- 
ing, and coweringly towards the door ; Sally reverently 
dropped her head, and tears streamed from her eyes ; 
while Fred, wdth a half amused, half puzzled expression, 
stood where the Prophet had left him. 

“ Man,” said the Prophet, “ go and be diligent, 
rendering accounts to the steward of the Lord. Wo- 
man, remain with him, and care for the goodl,y youth.” 
And la3dng his hand for a moment on the head of the 
latter, as if in benediction, they went out. 

“ Ha ! Sid ! old fellow ! ” slapping the still astonished 
Rigdon on the shoulder, “ what do you say to that, — 
rather goodish, eh ? ” 

“ It will do, I think,” replied the latter, laughing 
faintly. “ But I’ll tell j^ou what,” gravel}^, “ that light 
on the other side of the creek was rather shallow, and 
w^on’t bear repeating.” 

“ Oh, well, it won’t be necessary’ to claim anjdhing 
for that if there’s an^^thing said about it ; cotton 
wicking and turpentine don’t cost much. But I was 
devilish afraid that Olny would give tongue with his 
unknown jargon, — ‘ Shalang, Shala, Shale, Shalo.* 
God ! I’d give something for an interpreter of that. No 
wonder brother Paul discouraged this sort of thing.” 

“ Let us have none of that here,” said Rigdon, decid- 
edly. “Nor will it do to attempt such another perform- 
ance in this neighborhood. There are cool, shrewd 
heads all about us here.” 

“What’s the prospect with the Atwaters, and the 
Snows, and Deacon Carmon?” asked Smith. 

“ I’ve some hopes of the Snows ; Uncle Oliver is 


A PRINCE OP THE HOUSE OP JtJDAH. 


79 


long-headed, but then he’s wrong-headed, and we’ll 
catch him in that. If we do, the family will follow. 
As for young Atwater, he and the younger Campbell 
married sisters, you know.” 

“ I’d like to trj’ Alexander himself,” said Jo, a little 
assertively. 

“You’d wither under his glance like a plucked 
pumpkin-blossom in August,” said Rigdon, contemptu- 
ously. “ His eye is like an eagle’s ; and he is as firm 
and clear as rock crystal.” 

“ ‘Urim and Thummim’ in one,” retorted Jo, deris- 
ively. 

“ I think,” said Rigdon, quite decidedlj^ “ that we’d 
better not remain here long. If we stir up these 
churches too much, we shall have Campbell after us. 
I don’t care for old Tom, but I’d rather not have Alex- 
ander after me, just now.” 

“Well, what’s to hinder? Johnson will bu}' land 
anywhere, onl3^ he must have the title to himself, 
which is pretty darn’d shrewd for a new convert. No 
matter ; we’ll take this swag, and make a plant, wher- 
ever you say. I wonder if supper’s about ready ? and 
tell Oliver to have some of that brandy on hand.” 

The outside world knew that something was going 
on. All da^" long a crowd had been about the tavern 
watching for a glimpse of the Prophet, and wondering. 
Towards evening, they knew that Squire Ladd had been 
sent for, and had been in ; but he knew nothing, and 
chose to saj’ less. Late in the evening, the Prophet 
and Rigdon, with Cowdrj", returned to their more per- 
manent quarters, at Hiram. 

John Green did not appear again in the bar-room, 


80 


THE PORTRAIT. 


over which Jake, who had been back for some time, 
sulkily presided, while Fred came and went as usual. 

People had latterly regarded him and treated him 
in such a queer way, that he had avoided them, and 
seemed not very communicative. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


THE CITY OF THE SAINTS. BRIGHAM YOUNG, 


WENTY-THREE or four miles east of Cleveland, 



-L and six or seven south from Lake Erie, and within 
the township of Kirtland, lie Kirtland Flats, traversed 
north and south by the Chillicothe road, running over 
the old trail from the old Indian town of that name, to 
the lake. 

Through the flats, or rather valley, and one of the 
loveliest of its tame character, in a northwesternly 
direction, runs Kirtland Creek, on each side of which 
spreads out a rich alluvial at this point, nearly two 
miles in width, and of unsurpassed fertilit}^ 

The latter part of the winter and early spring of 
1831, saw strange sights of the gathering of strange 
people on the flats, — houses and shops, and huts and 
shanties and boxes, rudely extemporized, dropping and 
squatting here and there, and teams of horses and oxen, 
with every variety of strong or rude vehicle, and a 
motley assemblage of men, women, and children, in 
which the rude, rough, ignorant, squalid and poor were 
the prevailing type, until one wondered where they 
could have come from, with here and there a manly, 
intelligent face, and well-clad form, and occasionally a 
beautiful and refined woman, strangely out of place. 


6 


( 81 ) 


82 


THE PORTRAIT. 


And all this various assemblage of the odds and 
ends, with this sprinkling of the higher element of 
humanity, had one thing in common, — a cord of 
fanaticism that vibrated in all alike, and some evi- 
dences of which a thoughtful observer would have 
seen in their countenances. 

Such a zeal, having nothing to do with knowledge, 
a reckless abandonment of all the sober considerations 
of human life ; such an exultant, headlong casting of 
self upon the ecstasies of the wildest faith, to drift 
and be borne by the resistless currents of fanaticism 
gone mad, the earth had hardly seen, since Peter the 
Hermit, and Walter the Penniless, assembled their 
hordes for the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre. Hymns 
and preachings by da}^, and prayers and shoutings and 
prophecies, and the jargon of unknown tongues, with 
visions and trances, ruled the night. 

It was the first gathering of the Latter Day Saints, 
at the beginning of their marvellous pilgrimage. The 
voice of the Prophet had gone forth, calling the new 
elect to come out from the world, and the^’^ came. 
Lord, what a sight ! 

Marvellous success attended the preaching of Rig- 
don and his associates. Not many of his earlier faith 
followed him, but two remarkable conversions had 
already taken place : Mr. Boothe, a leading Methodist 
preacher of learning and decided ability, and Elder Ry- 
der of the disciples. The adhesion of these two to the 
Prophet gave him a real moral power in Northern Ohio, 
and he had already ordained the twelve apostles, and 
sent them forth ; the fruits of their ministry were gath- 


THE CITY OF THE SAINTS. — BRIGHAM YOUNG. 83 


eringto the New Zion, and, by the first of May, some^ 
hundreds had assembled. 

Johnson, of Hiram, had sold out his property, and 
invested the proceeds in the purchase of the fiats, sev- 
eral hundreds of acres, the title to which he had taken 
to himself, as the Prophet had predicted he would. 

A spacious dwelling, already on the property, was 
the head-quarters of the Prophet and his immediate 
suite, counsellers and advisers. A hotel was immedi- 
ately opened, new buildings of a better class were com- 
menced, and, with the exactions and contributions of his 
rapidly-increasing followers, he found himself in a con- 
dition to subsidize the material, labor, and skill of the 
surrounding country, which was profoundly excited by 
the sudden springing up of this outgrowth of religious 
delusion. 

In June, among others, there arrived from the East 
a young man by the name of Young, son of a farmer, 
with a fair English education, — a young man of fine 
person, genial, handsome face, and pleasing manners 
and address. He soon manifested an unusuall}" shrewd 
managing mind, with a great capacity to win con- 
fidence, and grow upon men. He had a natural aptitude 
for aflairs, and things on his hands instinctively went 
right ; obstacles disappeared in his presence, and order 
and method waited upon his footsteps. He contented 
himself with modestly doing what came to hand, uncon- 
scious of his own powers, perhaps, and was educated by 
circumstances and opportunity, which always attend 
the lives of the naturally shrewd. Not long was the 
modest young brother Brigham among the saints, as 
they meekly styled themselves, before he attracted the 


84 


THE PORTRAIT. 


notice of the Prophet, who was quick to discern the 
qualities of men, and who was not slow to avail him- 
self of the executive talents of the young convert. 
Brigham was no zealot or fanatic, and he was quick to 
see the needs of the new situation. Nor was he un- 
fruitful in expedients. Under his hand a much-needed 
police was organized, a commissariat established, shops- 
opened, and emplo^'ment found for the idle. The do- 
main was laid off into building lots, with regular streets 
and alleys, and the relations of the new community put 
on a more decent footing with their curious neighbors. 

The sudden assembling of some hundreds of idle, low, 
and often vicious or depraved spirits, freed from the 
restraints and habits of usual life, with the stimulating 
effect of association, all firmly believing that they were 
the elect of the earth, and that after a rapidly approach- 
ing day all the rest of the race were to be cut off, and 
that they were the direct heirs of the universe ; that 
the earth and its fulness were the Lord’s — that the 
earth was given to the saints — and that they were the 
saints ; it was not much to be wondered at that they 
should, by indirect ways, exceptionally anticipate the 
day of full delivery to them, to the great inconvenience 
and loss of temper of their ungodly neighbors. 

Unquestionably, these lawless tendencies among his 
followers coincided verj^ nearly with the Prophet’s prim- 
itive ideas of acquisition, if not with his earlier habits of 
appropriation ; but the shrewder Rigdon, and the 
entirely practical Brigham, could easily see that if they 
would remain in peace with their neighbors, the usages 
and forms of civilization must be observed, and that 
buying and not paying, however artificial and unre' 


THE CITY OP THE SAINTS. — BRIGHAM YOUNG. 85 


generate, were preferable to the simpler and possibly 
more attractive mode of taking without leave, and 
attended with less danger. 

Brigham soon developed a talent for speaking — some- 
what rare among the followers of the Prophet — was 
called, and ordained an elder, and coming rapidly 
forward, was finall}' set apart for missionary service. 
He early strengthened himself by a judicious marriage 
with a young woman of a good family, a resident of 
Kirtland, and outside of the church of the saints. 

In nothing is the sublime egotism of the race of 
men more conspicuous, than in the great powers it 
claims for all those to whose government or leadership 
it has submitted itself ; and it never will tolerate the 
idea that it has been deluded and imposed upon, save 
by men of wonderful powers, although it is often diffi- 
cult, as in this instance, to show wherein consisted this 
vaunted capacity and genius. 

Joseph Smith undoubtedly had a fair share of the 
lower elements of wisdom and sagacity which we call 
cunning ; was fertile in expedients, and possessed much 
intuitive knowledge of the lower springs and motions 
of human conduct. He was naturally courageous, 
always cool, and his impudence reached the sublime ; 
while the gambler’s faith in luck, with him, was a chronic 
fanaticism. “ I will become the Mohamet of America,” 
was his oft-repeated declaration to his confidants. 

The ideas of veneration and reverence were unknown 
to him ; and the levity and familiarity with which he 
joked about the most sacred things, shocked even the 
practical atheists who shared his confidence. The 


86 


THE PORTRAIT. 


nameless One with Maiy and Martha, the reasons 
why his brothers the apostles were sober on the day 
of Pentecost, and Paul’s excuse for not marrying, were 
staple topics of irreverent comment. 

His estimate of men was the simplest and most 
comprehensive. The3" were knaves or fools, or both. 
Not without skill in dealing with those about him, 
he often affected to place them in a nominal rank with 
himself, and plaj^ed them off against each other. He 
was without culture, and never acquired the capacity 
for any sustained extemporaneous speech. He had 
some readiness in the use of Scripture phrases, and 
often emplo^^ed its figures with effect. Sensual, and 
fond of the society of ladies, like man}^ such men, he 
was not without address to commend himself to their 
favor. He had a livel}’ sense of the ludicrous, and 
appreciated wit ; and while there was in his speech a 
prevailing tone of coarse levity", that broke out at 
times most unseemly, and was alwaj’s feared, there was 
also a vein of sentiment almost poetic, which at other 
times toned him up, and rendered him impressive. 
He was in no way an original, even in his eccentricities. 
His self-assurance was unsurpassed ; and after full prep- 
aration and careful rehearsal, he was always equal to 
his public occasions. 

The secret of the wonderful success which attended 
him, must be looked for in the common blindness and 
weakness of the race brought from the caves and woods 
of its far-off pilgrimage, by a ver}" common human na- 
ture, plastic and impressible, and in the tone and temper 
of the religious atmosphere of that day. 


THE CITY OF THE SAINTS. BIIIGIIAM YOUNG. 87 


After all, I have a little story to tell ; and I deal with 
this movement, its sources and course, only as they 
bear upon the fortunes of one already brought prom- 
inently to the notice of my reader. 


CHAPTER XV, 


SET APART. 


TIRING all this time, John Green was a zealous 



-L/ and devoted saint, unremitting in his religious 
exercises, and faithful in the duties assigned to him. 
His peculiarities of manner and language did not 
much commend him to the favor of his new and 
strange associates ; but his whining, caressing, and 
confidential ways had acquired a warmth and earnest- 
ness that seemed to be real, while his efforts to depre- 
cate and prevent intrusion, and give assurances that it 
was all right — that in fact there never was any cause 
of apprehension — were at times ludicrous. Naturally 
his confession and new faith had brought a momentary 
rest, almost peace and confidence. He, however, soon 
began to show signs of ph3"sical change. He became 
slightly stooped, and wrinkles and furrows were planted 
and ploughed over his large face with a depth that 
showed that the transforming hand was in earnest ; as 
if the shadows, whose presence were fictions, assumed 
to flatter a favored visitor, had become palpable and 
real, — were the mocking attendants of the host. 

Sally had really awoke to a fresh interest in life. 
The fossil remains of heart and sensibilities, withered 
or exhausted in early life, had suddenly sprung into 


( 88 ) 


SET APART. 


89 


new vigor, called up by a wailing cry of deserted and 
helpless childhood, and in their renewal embraced a 
brother with a tenderness never before felt ; even 
him who, in his callous and criminal selfishness, had 
not hesitated to infiict the gravest injuries upon her. 
From a life of the narrow torpor of mere existence, 
she found herself lifted to the warmth of human love, 
and the anxietj^ of a needed tenderness. Fred, thought- 
less, heedless, warm-hearted, impulsive, wayward, but 
frank and passionate, needed her care, and had the 
unselfish love of a mother; and John, old, perhaps 
criminal, stricken and wretched, misguided, as she 
thought, in surrendering up ever3dhing to Smith, 
Prophet though he was, was, as she could see, becom- 
ing helpless, — how helpless she knew not, for she did 
not know the full grasp with which he was holden. 
Partly from her native vigor, and partly from the 
knowledge that she held a considerable property free 
from the clutch of the church, Sally received much 
respect at the house, where she was a sort of housekeeper, 
and where Jake occasionally came when he was in 
Kirtland. 

Sam Warden tramped from Kirtland to Mantua and 
back, an unconverted Lamanite ; his real purpose in 
visiting Kirtland was to see Fred, whom he really 
loved, and of whom he was becoming very proud. 

Fred was a favorite with the Prophet, who distin- 
guished him with many marks of favor, and had been 
placed under the care of a competent teacher, not only 
in the ordinaiy English branches, but also in Hebrew 
and Greek — the Prophet having an absurd fancy for 
the former language — and not only required that his 


90 


THE PORTRAIT. 


higher priesthood should acquire it, but even under- 
took it himself, and learned the alphabet. Indeed, his 
whole polity was a servile copy of the Hebrew original, 
never fully carried out till the migration West. 

Fred developed no remarkable quickness in study, 
but was docile, and had a great steadiness of applica- 
tion for a boy of his age. He was permitted to retain 
and use his pony, and often went on hunting and 
fishing excursions ; yet, in some way, while life was 
bright and joj^ous to' him, he began to feel the presence 
of a hidden restraint, the existence of which manifested 
itself in various ways, and which was the more irk- 
some, as he had no wish to escape, and evaded no 
requirements. The terms on which he lived there he 
was never curious to understand, and perhaps no one 
could explain them. He was neatly dressed, well 
cared for, yet who or what managed and controlled 
him was not apparent. It was the will of tlie Prophet, 
which no one questioned. He attended the public 
worship of the saints, and was attentive to his studies ; 
he was not instructed in religious matters at first. 
Nobody asked him questions about himself; nobody 
asked anybody about him ; he was admired and en- 
vied ; 3'et who or what he was, if any one knew, no one 
told. In some way it came to be understood that 
nothing was to be known of him, and he was thus sur- 
rounded with a nameless myster}". Faces were turned 
to him, with mute questions, and when he approached 
they turned awa}^, or suddenly became blank ; whispers 
ran about him, mentioning his name, and when he 
turned to ask, they suddenly ceased, and the persons 
were not talking, — were not there. He seemed to be 


SET APART. 


91 


haunted and isolated, and the poor boy turned inward 
upon himself ; precocious in this, as deep, thoughtful, 
and isolated children become. If he went out, and 
met men and spoke to them, they returned his greeting, 
but made no conversation ; the boys rather avoided 
him, and little girls looked curiously at him, and were 
silent. He read books, — not many, for not many 
were to be had : the intellectual life of the saints was 
as poor and starved as could well be. He looked in 
the glass, and saw a tall, well-formed boy, with dark, 
speaking, grave face, with great, and, to him, sad, dark 
eyes, and brows that bent almost over them, curling 
hair, which Aunt Sally — he called her so now — liked 
to have grow long. 

What was it in him that people saw and did not 
like ? It never occurred to him that he looked well or 
ill, but he sought to find out what it was, and could not 
discover it. Not as at Mantua was he avoided, but 
more as one set apart ; while something like an inti- 
macy sprang up between him and the gentle H3Tam, to 
whom Nature had denied the marked qualities of his 
brother, compensating him with a more pleasing person 
and many attractive characteristics. Nor was he long to 
remain without other companionship. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


THE PROPHET S HAREM, 


HE social life of. the new community brought out 



J- the features always produced under similar condi- 
tions. Called, by the command of revelation, from the 
outer world, to a new, tenderer, and warmer brother 
and sisterhood, from which the forms of ordinaiy life 
were banished, with their minds liberated from the 
restraints of old faith, and in a measure from the habits 
of its old morals, with their moral natures and imagina- 
tions shaken by supposed supernatural manifestations, 
while their minds were perverted and blinded with a de- 
lusion that took the form of an infectious mental disease, 
in the new freedom of manners and license of association 
which formed the basis of this singular community, 
the Mormons speedily gave occasion for the comment 
of the idle and the strictures of the uncharitable out- 
side observers. 

In the summer and autumn of 1831, many important 
accessions were made to the new Zion. Some of the 
new converts were men of wealth and culture, who, 
with their families, united wdth the zealous, fervid throng. 
The wives and daughters of these men, many of them 
beautiful and gifted, with the accomplishments and graces 
of culture, were warmly welcomed by the Prophet and 


( 92 ) 


THE prophet’s HAREM. 


93 


his chiefs, and became the centre of their society, if 
not the enlighteners of their counsels, and the possible 
inspirers of some of the Piophet’s revelations. The 
graces of these fair devotees were not lost on him ; and 
it was his habit to unbend, in their presence, from the 
awful strain to which his mission called him, and to 
find relaxation and pleasure in their societ3\ There 
was no banishment of the light and sweet graces that 
spring from the presence of women, and the austere 
and self-den^dng virtues and mortifications of the an- 
chorite found small space in the discipline of the Prophet. 
The violin, and gay jo3’ance of the dance, and little 
pleasant attentions of gallantry, were rather acceptable 
to the preacher of the new dispensation, and found 
ample toleration, if not encouragement, in the militant 
church of the saints of the last days, and fulness of 
time. With ladies he affected playfulness, and in- 
dulged in the half abandon of ga3^ banter and persiflage^ 
not unbecoming his years, but which, in the eyes of ladies 
less favored of nature, or by the grace of the Prophet, 
seemed not a fitting garland for the awful brow of the 
specially called of God. Among his conceits he 
affected a fancy for old Scripture names, which he 
applied sometimes, happily, to his favorites of the sex, 
and which their friends usually reverently adopted. 
Judith was a 3’oung widow, splendidly formed, with 
regal brow, and straight, thin nose, hashing eye, and 
a perceptible shadow on her short upper lip. Two 
beautiful sisters, a blonde and a brunette, were Mary 
and Martha, with an aptitude for the roles of those 
of the old days. One budding brunette of thirteen or 
fourteen was the Rose of Sharon, and another S3dph- 


94 


THE PORTRAIT. 


like blonde the Lily of the Valley, and so on. He had 
applied several different names to Fred, but none that 
seemed to please himself, or that adhered to him. 

Late in the fall, a spaeious residenee for the Prophet 
was hurried to eompletion, in which was a ball-room, 
with many unapostolic conveniences ; and here, when 
the Prophet took possession, he was wont to assemble 
his favorites in the winter evenings, who came and 
formed about him a sort of court, where, in the absence 
of ceremony and reverence, joyousness and pleasure 
ruled. 

It was his wish that Fred, at first shy and bashful, 
should be present, and take part in these informal 
reunions ; and he took pleasure in promoting an ac- 
quaintance between him and the romping, saucy 
Rose, and the gentle and shy Lily ; and it was amus- 
ing to observe the unhesitating advances of the former, 
half warranted by her superior age, and inspired by 
her frank and open nature, and the half petulant, half 
disgusted wa}'^ in which the}^ were received by the 
bashful boy, as yet unpolished by society, and unin- 
formed b}" the gentle inspirations of nature. Is there 
in the world a funnier spectacle than a boy thus tor- 
mented b}^ the torturing attentions of an elder fro- 
ward miss, or in mortal man’s experience a position 
more intensely and painfully awkward? Patience, 
playful, teasing, and all unconscious Rose ; his voice 
will change from its treble to baritone, and subside 
to a sigh ; he will soon be watching for a mustache, 
and grow anxious about a necktie, and your time, or 
somebody’s time, will come, and you shall take sweet ven- 
geance yourself, or some one of yonr sex shall for you. 


THE PROPHET'S HAREM. 


95 


Naturally enough, Fred preferred the gentler, younger, 
and less pronounced Lily, between whom and himself 
rapidly sprang up a sweet boy and girl kindness, half 
friendship, and half the love of brother and sister. 
Fred was tall and handsome, and it was natural to look 
up to and cling to him, as she had no brother, and was 
gentle and sweet and beautiful, almost beyond earth ; 
and it was natural that the heart of the boy, the depths 
and strength of which had never been called out, should 
go to her, as something to love, cherish and protect. At 
his obvious preference for Lily, the mock indignation 
of the avoided Rose, and her pert and sharp speeches at 
poor Fred’s expense, were a source of amusement to the 
Prophet and his circle. 

The two girls — who became fast friends, as young and 
old girls do — with two or three others, were also placed 
under the instruction of Fred’s teacher, and he was thus 
surrounded by and became a sort of centre of a bright 
group of young people of about his own age. Pleasant, 
almost happy, were these days to Fred, and helpful and 
almost wholly healthful in their influence in form- 
ing his mind and helping to mould the elements of 
his character. His teacher, though a disappointed, 
gnarled, and soured man, was not a proselyte of the 
Prophet, and had much capacity as a tutor. Fred 
was now in an atmosphere of cultivated and reflned 
people, and at an age which, while it left him plastic 
and susceptible, was still too juvenile to permit him to 
be penetrated and stained by the hot and unwholesome 
influences which surrounded him. 

Externally, the affairs of the saints seemed prosper- 
ous. They numbered nearly two thousand residents ; a 


96 


THE PORTRAIT. 


large store, a fine mill, and, at last, a bank of limitless 
issue were established, and friendly relations existed 
betw'een them and the outside world. So the summer 
of 1832 found them. 

The foundation of the temple had been laid with im- 
posing ceremonies, and funds, and material, and arti- 
sans were in abundance to cany up its w'alls. 

Internally, the poison-seeds were germinating, dissen- 
sions were in the presidency", and feuds between the 
orders of the hierarchies had already arisen. 

A pale, sad-faced woman went silently about the 
home of the Prophet, and hung, with tearful eyes, over 
the cradle of the infant Joseph. 

The haughty Judith bent her regal brow suspiciously 
upon the sisters Mary^ and Martha, and even looked 
curiously at Rose ; while Mary and Martha were con- 
scious of an estrangement, though perhaps unconscious 
of the cause. So the summer ripened into autumn, and 
faded out into winter. 


CHAPTER XVII. 


THE VISION AND CALL. 

C onnected with the Prophet’s residence was the 
prophetic tower, in which were the Pavilion of 
Vision, and the Tabernacle of Inspiration, sacred from 
all but the Prophet, and such as he chose to admit. It 
was in the first of these that he received visions, and 
in the latter, spiritual ministrations. 

Stained glass softened the light, rich carpets received 
the feet, and elegant sofas and stuffed chairs, and 
various nameless and some indescribable appliances 
relieved the tedium of waiting, and offered attractive 
resting-places to the celestial visitants. Many closets 
and small rooms opened from the two principal apart- 
ments, always closed to profane feet, and unrevealed to 
unsanctified eyes. 

On the couch of reception, in the Pavilion of Vision, 
arra^^ed in a loose silken robe, which left the throat 
exposed, reclined the Prophet, in the trance of expecta- 
tion, and so disposed that a circle of softened and 
rose-colored light rested like a halo about his head. A 
subtle perfume pervaded the room, in a niche of which, 
and near the feet of the Prophet, loosely robed in white, 
and zoned slightly at the waist, with bare feet and bare 
arms, with her floods of blond tresses dropping in golden 
7 ( 97 ^ 


98 


THE PORTRAIT. 


waves and ripples about her, with her lips slightly 
apart, and her splendid blue orbs fixed adoringly on 
the Prophet, a rich flush on cheek and lip, and a tumul- 
tuous heaving of the bosom, that her pressed hand 
could not still, stood the Mary of this advent, breath- 
less and rapt. 

There was a slight motion of the entranced form, 
the hanging canopy opened, and a golden raj* fell upon 
and illuminated the lips of the Prophet. A smile 
played over his hitherto moveless features, the lips 
parted, and in a low, soft voice he spoke : 

“ And the spirit said, Lo ! and as I looked, the thick 
clouds parted, and before me ran the beautiful river of 
life under the sunlight and margined with flowers, and 
on the thither bank stood the imumerable hosts of the 
redeemed, star-crowned, and striking their jewelled harps 
with gladness ; and at their head, towering above the 
sons of men, and with the form and beauty of an angel, 
stood he who had led them there. And the voice said, 
‘ Lo ! he who hath delivered them was born of a virgin, 
and the Prophet of the Lord.* ** The light flashed opt 
for a moment with dazzling birilliancy, when the voice 
of the Prophet again, in the tones of earth, was heard, 
“ Come ! the Spirit and the Bride say come,** stretch- 
ing forth his arms. A rustle of the white robe, the 
gleam of a white foot, the glance of white arms, and 
she sank on her knees by his side, murmuring, “ My 
Prophet and my Lord.** And the thick folds of the 
drapeiy, like enfolding noiseless night, fell with mute 
darkness about them. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


THE LILT. 

I N a little cottage low down on the banks of the 
beautiful creek, and under a bluff that juts down 
to its margin, now hoarse and murmuring with the 
autumn rains ; under the golden and crimson maples, 
radiant with a flood of autumn sunshine that poured 
through a red-lipped rift in the dark October clouds ; 
in the little sitting-room, warm with the West, reclining 
in a low rocking-chair, with her wondrous eyes grown 
large, but with the color still on lip and cheek, sat 
the Lily of the Valley ; and on a low ottoman at her 
feet, with his great liquid dark eyes lifted with mute 
sorrow to her translucently spiritual face, holding her 
miracles of hands, sat Fred. Too frail for earth, too 
pure for its atmosphere, the golden-fringed wing of 
the angel had shaken its shadow of light and blight on 
the gemmed margin of life only to exalt and purify and 
beautify heart and spirit' and form, as they stepped 
along the star-lit way that leads down to death and 
up to God ; a sweeter pensiveness, a dreamy languor, 
came over her, like the far-off approach of sleep, bring- 
ing tender shadows into her eyes, like coming dreams 
in the drowsy orbs of childhood ; a lower note in her 
laughter, a more caressing tone in her voice, just a lin- 
( 99 ) 


100 


TH^ PORTRAIT. 


gering in her step, and a clinging in her hand, and she 
went brightl}^ along the shining wa3^ 

The approach, made in the loveliest form, was per- 
ceived by her widowed mother in the spring. At mid- 
summer the ph^^sicians came and looked, and went 
almost , silently away. With the coming of autumn 
the indications were marked, and in October it was 
decided that her life could only be prolonged by a 
flight with the birds, southward ; so it was arranged to 
carry her to beautiful Cuba. In the morning, a car- 
riage would start with her and her mother across to 
Cincinnati. 

She was telling Fred of the wonders of Cuba. “ They 
say that in mid-winter it is warmer than our August ; 
that, day after day, the whole heavens are radiant with 
white, brilliant light, that dazzles, and that every day 
brings new and wonderful flowers, and that there grow 
the wonderful palms — ” 

“ Tve seen them,” said Fred, in a low voice. 

“ You ? When and where ? ” 

“ In my dreams, I suppose, — when I had the fever, 
perhaps,” said Fred, looking puzzled. 

“ And then there are marvellous fruits, whose names 
we’ve never heard, — and — oh, when I’ve seen them, 
I’ll come back, and tell you, — perhaps,” thoughtfully. 

Fred arose, saying he would come and see her start 
in the morning. 

“ Fred,” said the mother, “ say your good-by to- 
night. It will be better for both.” 

The poor boy looked with pain in his mute, appeal- 
ing eyes, and, turning back, threw himself on his knees 
by the now agitated child, and, clasping her in his arms, 


THE LILY. 


101 


sobbed out, “ Oh, Lily ! oh, Lily ! and buried his face 
in her robes in a paroxysm of sorrow. The poor girl 
bent over him, hardly less excited. “ Don^t, don’t, 
Fred, don’t ! ” 

He remembered that he was almost a man, and 
raised his tear-stained face, now under control. 

“Fred, there’s one thing I want to say to you” — 
with a low, deep voice — “which I must say; don’t 
stay here. It — it — is not good here. I can’t tell, — 
I don’t know why ; but it ain’t good. Go away ; oh, go 
away from here ! ” 

“ Go ! ” exclaimed Fred, “ I cannot go ; I’m watched. 
Where could I go? I have no home, no father, no 
mother. I don’t know who or what I am. A dog was 
the only thing that ever loved me, and he was slain 
for it. I would gladly die ! ” bitterly. 

“ Hush, hush, Fred ! that is wicked. God is with 
you, and His angels will care for you, if you will be 
good. I love you ; mamma loves you. You are almost 
a man, and strong and brave, and can go anywhere, 
and do anything ; and if I live,” said the beautiful girl, 
“ I shall come back, and 3"ou can come to us.” 

“ If you live ! ” exclaimed Fred ; “if you live ! You 
cannot die ! ” passionately. 

“ Fred, I may never see you again ; ” and, putting 
her lips to his, she murmured “ farewell.” 

Fred could remember the touch of no lips to his, and 
none were ever to touch them again till — 

Not lovers, as the world counts lovers, were this 
young girl and boy ; perhaps would never have become 
such. Possibh^, had the young girl ripened into woman- 
hood, she would have carried the image of the youth in 


102 


THE PORTRAIT 


her heart, and have known no other. Possibl}^, the 
3’outh — Who will speculate upon the possibilities of 
the passions? 

Fred, whose feelings la}^ deep, and who had been 
alread}^ taught the bitter lesson of repression and con- 
trol, without a word passed out of the cottage, and 
took his way, amid the shadows of the young night, 
down the banks of the creek, toward the near forest. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


THE ROSE, 



HERE never was such a boy,” said the piqued, 


-L petulant, and pouting Rose, one evening towards 
spring, after one of her teasing raids on poor annoyed, 
and half disgusted, Fred. How she had ripened within 
a few months, with her bright face flushing with au- 
dacity, and her e}' es liquid and swimming with sensi- 
bility! She had stolen upon him, and snatched his 
book from his hands, and ran away with it, and he did 
not follow her, the booby, only looked annoyed, with 
his eyes turned from her. 

“Will it have its book back again? Well, don’t 
cry ; it shall have it, then 1 ” With a mocking gesture, 
as if to restore it, and snatching it from his extended 
hand, again. 

“Oh-h-h, why didn’t ’e take it? Didn’t want it, 
did ’e?” 

“ ‘ Jack the Giant Killer,’ ” she said, aflecting to read 
the title. “What do you s’pose Jack would have 
done if a young lady had snatched his book away? 
You don’t know? I guess you don’t, stupid I ” looking 
piqued. 

“ There, take your old book I ” dashing it down upon 
the table at his side. “ I beg your lordship’s pardon,” 


( 103 ) 


104 


THE PORTRAIT. 


with mock humility, taking up the hook again, and 
approaching him with exquisite grace ; “ permit me to 
ask your pardon for my rudeness, and restore your 
book to you. You won’t forgive me ? Do now, my 
poor heart will break all in one small piece, and I shall 
burst into a tear, ” pressing her little jewelled hand, 
with mock agony, upon her exquisite bust. 

“ There now, let us kiss and make up. You won’t? ” 
Stepping around in front of him, and placing her hand 
under his chin, and lifting his face up, with her own 
dangerousl}^ near.* “Look up here — right into m3’ 
two eyes — do 3’ou know what I’ve a good mind to do ? 
I’ve a good mind to kiss you, right on your two stupid 
red lips.” Fred placed his hand over his mouth. 

“ What a fool ! ” turning awa}^, and a moment later 
returning and taking the tip of his ear between her 
thumb and finger. “Who do 3’ou love? Nobody? 
Who do you like best? I know, — Aunt Salh^, since 
Lily went. Don’t mention Lil}’? Well, I won’t, poor 
little doll-baby ; she ’ll make just the wife for you. You 
don’t want any wife ? of course you don’t ; and 3’ou never 
will, — stupid. You sha’n’t dance with me to night. 
You don’t want to? Yes you will, when 3^011 see Mr. 
Hyde, and Mr. Young, and Ed Baldwin, and all that 
set around me, — when 3"ou can’t get me you’ll want me.” 
And running back, and stooping down before him, and 
looking vexed and spitefull3" into his face, — “Your a 
fool ! ” ran out of the room with, “ there never was 
such a boy,” to herself. 

Fred knew he was a fool, and without at all knowing or 
even suspecting wh3^, poor sweet innocence. He knew, 
to be sure, that he ought to jump up and run, and romp 


THE ROSE. 


105 


with her, and kiss her, and play at lover ; but nothing 
in the world seemed to him so stupid, and he was dis- 
gusted, as he had been a dozen times before, that she 
should tease and annoy him so. lie had found that 
girls were hateful as a class — “made to bother a fel- 
low ” — except sweet Lily, whom he had kissed, and as 
he had kissed her he would not kiss another, least of 
all this saucy tomboy of a Rose. Oh, silly Adonis ! 
Oh, slowest and greenest of springs ! 

The games of romps played off by the audacious 
Rose were well known to man}^ of the household, who 
had rather enjoyed the annoyance which they occar 
sioned that young gentleman. The Prophet had piqued 
her, laughing at her ^ant of success in winning some 
response from him ; while the poor boy’s want of sen- 
sibility and proper appreciation of opportunity which 
so constantly flouted him, in the shape of red lips and 
a supple waist, exposed him to not a little prophetic 
ridicule and sarcasm. The open manner in which the 
piquant Rose made her playful attacks, relieved them 
and her from the imputation of wantonness, or even 
levit}^, in the minds of all except Aunt Sally. She 
did not like it at all. She did not want Fred exposed 
to the annoyance, and whatever danger might some 
time come of it as he grew older. She did not feel so 
certain of this young and premature woman ; she 
thought that it was her duty to put a stop to the pres- 
ent state of things, and she did change it somewhat. 
Something she intimated to the thoughtless Rose, who 
received her words not as might have been expected. 
Toward Aunt Sally she maintained a composed de- 
meanor and dignifled silence, which rather discoip 


106 


THE PORTRAIT. 


fited that primitive lady ; but entering the room of poor 
Fred, and pointing her finger at him : “ And so ’e *itt*e 
baby-boy tole ’e aunty, didn’t it ? well ’e should tell ’e 
aunty ’boutey naughty Rosy, ’es ’e shouldey.” A eircle 
of sauey laughter ran about him ; and had it been a 
circle of fire, it would not have made him more uncom- 
fortable. 

Fred had not the slightest notion what had oceurred, 
nor of course to what she alluded. But her rid- 
ieule was so keen and incisive, that its sting pierced 
him through. He, eontinued to aet upon his old and 
only line of defenee, — passive and silent enduranee ; but 
he knew that his poor boy-face was in a fiame, and 
tears of helpless rage eame into his unehanging, unwink- 
ing eyes. 

The girl witnessed the ehange with surprise ; and 
regarding him a moment, she approached, and in a 
tone of sweet eontrition, — “ Fred,” she said, “ forgive 
me ! ” and left him to his refleetions. Afterwards 
when she met him, it was always with sweet deferenee 
andrespeet, and a delicate eonsideration, not alone for his 
feelings, but as if she eared for his good opinion. Fred 
was surprised to find how pleasant and eharming her 
presence had beeome, somehow, and he now observed, 
for the first time, what a developed and beautiful wo- 
man she had grown ; and as, like a true boy, he had 
always vaguely, and afar off in the clouds of boy dream- 
land, admired the largest and oldest girl, resting his 
affections upon substance and weight, so now he began 
to gather the haze of his faney about Rose as a dim 
sort of a halo around a star ; and this transformation 
was brought about by a girl not sixteen. 


CHAPTER XX. 


THE CRISIS. 

S PRING was approaching, with an ominous intima- 
tion that it would bring some change to Fred. 
“Wait till spring,” was the reply to any unusual request. 
He wanted to go to Painesville. “ You shall go next 
spring, perhaps.” He had never been in Cleveland. 
“ Well, if he was all right in the spring he might.” 
Fred thought this referred to 'his studies. He was a 
very good grammarian, and made good progress in 
arithmetic ; was said to have an aptitude for language ; 
was a fine declaimer, for a boy ; a very fine reader and 
a good penman, — all for his age. 

Little had ever been said to him about religion or 
the church. Of course he lived in the atmosphere of 
zeal, fanaticism and credulity, of deception, cant and 
hypocrisy. Not much impression, however, had been 
made on his mind, or the nebulous matter that was to 
harden into mind. When he first went to Kirtland, a 
circle was formed to read the Book of Mormon, and to 
him was assigned the place of reader. He found it 
dull ; even its marvels could not relieve its opaque 
dulness. 

It is said that even the gods, when the}^ try a fall 
with mortal stupidity, are worsted. 

( 107 ) 


108 


THE PORTRAIT. 


He was nearly fourteen, and it was said that he must 
take a position ; in short, he was given to understand 
that, by the marked act of baptism, he must enroll him- 
self unconditionally with the saints. It was explained 
to him, that when the temple was completed, a new 
service would be inaugurated ; that there would be a 
new class of 3'Oung priests, with special privileges, and 
for whose duties special training was required ; that he 
was destined as the first of this new order, and that he 
and his associates, seven in number, were to enter upon 
their novitiate on a day in March not yet named. The 
repressive life of the student had formed in him the 
habit of taking things coolly, and this announcement 
was met with more than his usual frigidity. He said 
he would think about it. 

“ Think about it ! ” repeated the secretary, with 
amazement. 

“ I said I would,” coolly. 

“ There ain’t but one who thinks here,” was the 
answer. 

“ Yes there is ; I think, some,” quietly. 

“ You ! who the devil are you, anyway, I’d like to 
know ? ” 

“ So would I,” a little sadly. 

With a stare of increased amazement, the messenger 
of the will of the presidency left, for it was of sufficient 
importance for the action of that nominal body. 

The next day the Prophet took Fred from the 
dinner table to a sort of study, and in a kindly 
manner made known to him his destination : in a few 
days he would be baptized, and enter upon a different 
course ; he was specially called to it, his career would 


THE CRISIS. 


109 


be distinguished, and finally, he would be one of the 
leaders of the saints. It was the only time he had 
ever seriously conferred with Fred. At the close of 
his communication Fred was silent, and the Prophet 
for the first time noticed something peculiar in his 
look, that a little irritated him. He did not stop to 
consider what it was ; he was not given to much con- 
sideration in personal matters of this sort ; nobody 
questioned or opposed his will. 

Fred had a sort of liking for the gay, good-natured, 
easy-going Prophet, and had ever seen him in the 
inside life of his houseTiold ; j^et by that sort of instinct 
which governs the likings of children, he was kept from 
any close intimacy by a repulsion that he did not 
understand, and never thought of examining. 

“ I’ve left you too much to 3"Our own old Adam ways,” 
said the Prophet, bending his brows upon him with 
unwonted severity. “You know, boy, that we can cast 
out devils, if need be.” He now unmistakably saw 
something in the youth’s eyes,— the same that Sam 
Warden saw, and that haunted John Green, and that 
flashed out into the face of Jake. Whatever it was, it 
looked to the Prophet like the spirit of courage, that 
had already reached the stage of defiance. He had 
encountered it in two or three women, and had found 
that the wa}^ to deal with it was not to assail it. 

“ My dear boy,” he said, blandly, and laying his 
hand on Fred’s head, “we cannot spare you, nor must 
you leave youi* studies ; what a handsome young man 
you are becoming ! The ladies would cry if we had to 
send you to the store ; Rose would break her little 
heart.” And picking up Fred’s soft, but large and finely- 


110 


THE PORTRAIT. 


formed hand, and admiring its texture, — “ This was not 
made for a stone hammer or a yardstick ; we shall have 
no trouble,” lightly and ga3dy he withdrew. 

The next day, Rigdon, whose sins had been purged 
away by special act, so that he could be the equal of 
the Prophet in everything but the prophetic spirit, the 
monopoly of which was to be perpetually enjoyed by 
Joseph, sent for Fred, and in a frank, bland, seductive 
way went over with the whole ground, and then he 
reminded him that they had taken him literally from 
a stable, housed and fed, clothed and pampered him, 
and educated him like a prince,” because he had been 
called, so that he felt they might now urge that they 
had a claim upon him. Fred winced at this. But 
then, in his darkened mind, he thought it was funny 
that if he was called, he should not be given the mind 
to go. 

Rigdon went on to say th it it was his duty to obe}^ 
the gospel, after which the way would open to him ; 
that he was old enough to choose and have a mind 
about it ; adding, “ To-morrow, perhaps, you will be 
asked the direct question, — ‘Will you obey the gospel 
by the outward sign of baptism ? ’ ” and bade him good- 
morning. 

Fred was quite prepared to answer then, but return- 
ing the bow of the president, he withdrew. 

As he went out he was joined in the corridor by Rose, 
w^ho came up with a little of her old assurance, but 
none of the old banter, and passed her arm through 
his, clasping her little dimpled hands on his arm. 
Her touch had a strange, sweet charm for him. Look- 
ing up a little timidly in his face, she said, “ Fred, you 


TtlE cnisis. 


in 


will be baptized ; I know you will ; we’ve all been, — 
even sweet Lily was baptized, — say you will! you 
don’t know how much . we all wish it. And you are 
quite a man now,” dropping her voice and head with a 
blush. The little curled head came very naturally' 
upon his tall shoulder ; and it was all so like the things 
in the stories ; and it seemed to him that he ought to 
pass his arm about the marvellous little waist, made to 
be cinctured with a lover’s arm. 

Then she raised the little warm face, and turned and 
looked up into his eyes. “ What is it men see in your 
eyes? I only see coldness,” with a fainting tone. The 
sauciness had gone out of hers ; there was only a sweet 
pleading in them, and her breath, like a faint incense, 
came warmly upon his lips. 

“ And you will say Yes, and w'e shall all so love you, 
— and, Fred — ” the little head went down decidedly 
on the shoulder. Voices came from a near, open door ; 
and the unconscious maiden passed it with a natural, 
gay nonchalance, utterly bewildering to poor Fred. 

There was another intensely interested observer. 
Aunt Sally still filled the important post of house- 
keeper, attentive to her duties, prudent, discreet, 
trusted, and in some vague, far-off way, feared. Ap- 
parently absorbed and preoccupied, and unobserving, 
nothing escaped her about the household, and she was 
the first to note the change in the manner of Rose 
toward Fred. Nor was she for a moment deceived. 
Poor blind, unseeing, unknowing, unthinking boy, only 
beginning vaguely to feel the approaching revolution 
that was so mysteriously taking place in him, as the 
new forces of Nature were beginning faintly to pulsate 


112 


THE PORTRAIT. 


through his S3^stem ! Alread}^ he was beginning to lose 
the control of his voice, the richer volume of which, fail- 
ing to find utterance through the unchanged, childish 
organs, would shatter itself into piping quavers, or fall 
to a grum bass, much to his ‘surprise, and often to his 
annoyance. Poor boy ! he was becoming a man ; and 
only thought he had taken a funn}^ cold, all unaware of 
the fever that would follow it. 

This, too, had Aunt SslWj noted ; she knew also, and 
better than he, what the Prophet wanted of him, and 
guessed somewhat the reasons wh3% She knew, too, 
the means that would be emplo}*ed to secure that pur- 
pose, and looked darkly’ at Rose, and anxiouslv, appre- 
hensivel}", at Fred. She had not anticipated that the 
final ordeal would be reached until further lapse of 
time. But how could she explain, how warn, how 
inform and put on his guard the unconscious bo}^ "who 
had been walking about this prison-house, for all these 
months, eating and sleeping, caring for and being 
caressed b^" these deadly foes, who might poison his 
food, and who had poisoned the air he breathed ? Not 
in this order, but brokenly and fragmentaril}^, all these 
thoughts had come to her ; and on this day, had she 
been the object of suspicion or of observation, care and 
anxiety" would have been seen on her strong brow. 

Deep in the following night, Fred was awakened by 
Sall^^, who brought a lamp into his room, and began 
with some needless words to allay any apprehension 
he might feel at her intrusion. Apprehension was the 
last emotion likely to arise in him. 

“ Fred, I want to ask ye one thing. Do ye trust 
me, Fred?” 


THE CRISTS. 


113 


“ All the time, aunt3^” 

“Bless 3’e! Well, then, — ’ave ye been called? — 
asked to be babtized, — 3’e know?” 

“ I was told I would be asked to-morrow.” 

“To-morrer? Massy! So soon? Do ye want ter 
be?” 

“ No.” 

“Will ye?” 

“ No.” 

“ They may compel ye.” 

“ Compel me ? ” with immense and contemptuous 
incredulity. 

“ Yer a bo}^, Fred, an’ don’t know ; they may force 
ye.” 

“ Force me? Let ’em try. They may drown me ! ” 
with a frown of angry defiance. 

“Ye may see a vizyin.” 

“ I saw plenty on ’em when I was sick,” quietly. 

“ Do ye like bein’ ^^ere ? ” 

“ Not much. Why do you ask, aunty? ” 

“ If ye’s to go, whar ’d ye go to ? ” 

“Somewhere, an^^where, — to Uncle Bill Skinner’s, 
perhaps.” 

“ They’d git ye thar.” 

“ Il’m, — let ’em try.” 

Aunt Sally stood silent a moment in thought: 
“ Fred I ” 

“Yes, aunty.” 

“D’3^e like ennybody yere? anybody in petic’ler, 
mor’n ye do other folks, — Rose ? ” 

“ I like her better than I used to,” was the straight- 
forward, unhesitating answer. » 

8 


114 


THE PORTRAIT. 


“ Fred ” — much relieved — “ d^ye think this yer’s a 
good place ? ” 

“Not very.” 

“Fred?” 

“ Aunty.” 

“D’ye ever pray? ” 

“ My mother learned me to pray.” 

“ Yer mother? Oh, Betsey Warden ! ” 

“Was she my mother?” earnestly. 

“ Bless yer soul, what a question ! *Ow should I 
know ? ” 

“ There, good-night ; ” and she went away much com- 
forted. 


chapter XXt. 


THE CALL OF FRED, 


ilE next motning the Prophet was in a semi- 



prophetic state j very unusual in the household. 
Fred was called to the large common room adjoining 
the breakfast-room^ and before that meal^ where the 
Prophet addressed him in a solemn voice. 

“It is a goodly youth. Let the spirit call in its 
chosen way ; ” and laying his hand upon the unmoved 
bo^’^’s head, — “ Receive grace to hear and heed,” he 
said ; and spreading abroad his hands, in an impressive 
manner, he pronounced an invocation and breathed a 
benediction. At the action of his hands, all the assem- 
bled household reverently bowed, and then took their 
places at the table, when the Prophet, with his own 
hands, broke and blessed the bread, saving : “ This, 
with water, be the food of the household of the Lord 
this day ; and may it become the bread of life.” 

To say that Fred was much impressed by this simple 
and imposing ritual, is merely true ; and, impassive as 
he had become, he looked upon the Prophet quite in 
amazement. He almost divided with him the attention 
of the awed spectators. 

The Prophet remained about the house all day in 
rapt, austere silence. No work, not the lightest chore, 


( 115 ) 


116 


THE POliTliAIT. 


no word, not even a whisper, was done or said ; but 
in silence or stealth the inmates sat or moved through 
the house, till nightfall, as if under a frozen spell. 

The day was dark and rainy, and the night came on 
with snow and wind. The blinds of the whole house 
liad remained closed during the day, and after night- 
fall the darkness within was pitch}' . 

It came upon Fred, in his own room, on the upper 
floor, and alone. He was a little faint for want of 
food, and not without a vague sense of something 
impending ; but his pulse was at its usual beat, and 
liis veins, like his will, unmoved. All the day long his 
memory had wandered back over his shadowed, strait- 
ened, stinted life, and found little to linger upon with 
pleasure. That little boat came again and again into 
his mind, and he wondered at the impulse that induced 
him to cast it to the fortune of the river. Whither 
had it been carried ? * Had some happy boy picked it 
up and kept it? Had it stranded and rotted by the 
river’s side ? Had it been fortunate, and swam out to 
the far-off great lake, which he had never seen save 
from the hills at the north? Its little fortune was 
like him, and the impulse came to leap into the outside 
current, and let it carry him along. Then the story 
came into his mind of the youth who, one bright 
summer morning, was loitering by a river side, when 
he oame upon a little boat, into which he stepped, and 
pushing it into the current, committed himself to it ; 
and it bore him down, past flowery banks and dark 
forests, past craggy steeps, that threw sombre shadows 
over him, and finally it landed him near a dark, battle- 
mented old castle, which the river protected on the 


THE CALL OF FRED. 


117 


water-side. The youth stepped ashore and entered the 
old castle, in and around which was neither voice, nor 
sound, nor sign of living thing ; mould, dust, neg- 
lect and desertion, held joint sway over all. He 
passed an open portal, and picked a rusty dagger from 
the stone floor, and while he was curiously observing it — 
a drop of red blood distilled from its point, and — a 
form in white entered Fred’s room with an unheard 
step, which so coincided with the rapt current of thought, 
revery and mental vision of the youth, that when a 
voice said, — “ The spirit leads, follow,” he arose with- 
out hesitation, and laying down the dagger, as he 
seemed to do, he followed in silence. Out down the 
corridor, down a stairway, through other passage- 
ways, up other stairs, through doors all open, and in 
the darkness all strange, slowly they proceeded, grop- 
ing and hesitating, on Th ed’s part, from the uncertainty 
of the way. At last a curtain parted, and Fred found 
himself he knew not where. A dim light, like that of 
the ghosts of many lamps, filled the room, if such it 
was, utterly unlike anything he had ever seen. A 
pleasant warmth and a faint odor, as the fragrance of 
fresh violets pervaded the place. Fred’s conductor, 
pointing to a low, spacious couch, motioned him to sit ; 
and indicated a low table near the sofa, on which was 
a goblet of water, and some bits of broken bread. 
The sight of the food recalled the healthful sensation 
of hunger, and taking up a piece he eagerly ate a 
few mouthfuls, moistening his mouth with the limpid 
contents of the goblet. He fancied that there was a 
peculiar, but not unpleasant, taste in the food or water, 
and laying himself back on the luxurious couch, mused 


118 


THE PORTRAIT. 


dreamily on his strange surroundings. As he lay,ther€ 
came the sound as of heavj^ drapery moving and rust- 
ling in a slight breeze, pleasant to the whilom, over- 
wrought, but now quieted senses of the 3’outh. Finally 
the light died out, and darkness in heavy folds seemed 
to fall about him, and wrap his benumbed perceptions 
in almost oblivion. Strange forms hovered for a mo- 
ment across the fading margin of consciousness, and 
the Lily, more beautiful than earth, but shadowy, with 
her lips to his, and then, — utter nothing. * * * * 

Was he sleeping or waking? was he still on earth, for 
earth never saw, even its shadow, nor painter in dream, 
nor devotee in ecstasy. There in a rosy light it was, 
not wavering nor shadowy, but firm and real, and 
within his reach. Was there ever such a face, trans- 
parent, yet suffused, such eyes and lips ? And all about 
the glorious head — the wondrous head — such a cloud 
of marvellous golden hair, flooding down full of spangles, 
and confined with a golden circle. He dared not drop 
Ms eyes from the wondrous face, yet, in the bright 
radiance which surrounded him, what was not given to 
'his gaze ! The left shoulder was veiled ; from it a bal- 
•drick passed over the left bosom, and below the right, 
^sustaining a shining robe of white. The right shoul- 
der, with the loveliness that only haunts dreams, would 
assert itself on the entranced vision of the cold, pure 
boy, and thus framed in the rose-tinted folds, held 
back by one hand, this marvellous wonder stood. As 
the eyes looked steadily into those of the boy, a deeper 
tint seemed to light up the celestial face. “You are 
called ! you are called ! 3’ou are called ! ” At first low, 
and ravishingly sweet, then louder and firmer, and then 


THE CALL OF FUED. 


119 


in a tone that seemed to command as well as announce. 
The right hand extended toward the youth a slender 
white wand, with a wavering motion, — the light faded, 
the vision melted, and the heavy folds of darkness 
again enveloped him. 

Was he asleep or awake? Dead or alive, in trance 
or dream? He could neither think nor remember. 
Had the fever returned? Was it an angel? Did time 
move or stand still ? He had neither the will nor power 
to move. Then unconsciousness ; and then the \dsion 
of his fever, strange foliage and flowers, and palm- 
trees, and the radiant, happy face, and the name, heard 
only in dreams ; then suddenly came the face and voice 
of Aunt Sally, speaking the name of Fred, and the day 
changed to a lamp. 

This was real. She laid her hand strongly upon 
him. Fred, Fred, ’wake ! ” low and earnest, — “ come 
— this minnit ! ” With the touch of her hand, the 
charm was broken ; he arose with an effort, and fell 
back Tvcak and hea\y, as if in a letharg}’. There was 
a ringing in his ears, and a diy burning in his throat. 
He would have drank from the goblet, but found that 
it, too, had disappeared. 

Partly dragged,and partly walking, F red went hurriedly 
down a narrow, spiral stairway', down and down, till he 
met a current of sweet, fresh, cold air, and soon stood 
on the ground. A few steps more, and he found him- 
self in the kitchen, where Sally gave him a bowl of 
milk, which he drank at a breath, and felt refreshed, 
though still dazed and uncertain. 

“Fred, for the mass^^s sake! What ’appened? 
What did yo ^nd *ear ? ” What a wave qf shadow 


120 


TIIK rORTKAIT. 


and darkness now la}^ between the waking, real present^ 
and the vision and dreams of the hour ago ! 

“I must have dreamed strange old fever dreams, 1 
wonder if my head is all right ? ” shaking it. 

“You look scared, an’ sort o’ wild ! ” 

“Do I?” 

“Fred, this yer’s a wicked, bad place, — don’t ye 
want to leave it ? ” 

“ Yes, I’ll go now. I won’t sta^^ here another hour.” 

“War’ll ye go.” 

“Where will I? Anywhere, everywhere, Aunt Sally, 
— tell me who and what I am? You know, — don’t 
you ? ” 

“ Lord ! how excited ye ar’ ! ’ow do I know ? Jar- 
vis won’t tell.” 

“ Jarvis ! Who’s — ! ” 

“John, — John Green! Oh, we’ve all changed!” 
confused and distressed. 

“Aunt Sally — !” 

“ ’Ush ! ’ush ! they’ll miss ye.” 

“ I don’t care. Let ’em come,” defiantly. 

“ Fred, see ! ’ere’s a bundle o’ yer things. ’Ere’s 
yer cloak, an’ boots, and cap, an’ ’ere in this basket ’s 
nice things for ye. Mebbe they’ll follow ye, — ye can 
eat as ye go. Pore, pore, ’omeless boy ! ” now break- 
ing down. 

“I don’t care if they do follow me,” coarsely; “1 
wish they would.” 

“ I’ve thought it over ’n over. It’s near day. ’Ere’s 
a little money for ye. Ye’d better go to Mantua, and, 
Fred, ye’ll ’ear froni me when I know. Stay thar, 


THE CALL OF FRED. 


121 


ware I can find ye ; as sure as the Lord 3’e’ll *ear from 
me, when I know.” 

The boy had taken another copious draft bf milk, and 
swallowed some choice bits of cold ham. He now put 
on his boots, — there was his rich cloth cloak, with its 
fur collar, his fur muffler, and seal cap, his warm gaunt- 
leted gloves, and light-packed valise. He lifted and 
poised its weight. , 

“ It ’as as many shirts an’ things as I could git in 
it, an’ ’ere’s all the mone}- I can raise,” putting a 
small purse in his hands. “ Get across to t’other stage 
route, from Chardon ; an’ — oh, Fred — 3"er the thing 
I love best on airth, ye lonel}", ’ouseless wanderer ; God 
will some time bless ye ! ” 

A great, dry gasp arose, and was choked down by the 
poor bo}". For a moment, the strong, true arms of 
Sally were about him ; then he found himself alone in 
the wet slush of snow and mud, traversing a lane that 
led out from the rear of the house, to the Chillicothe 
road. 

With the directness of his nature, Fred walked 
boldl}^ though rapidty, along the street. The storm 
had subsided, and the approach of day was lighting up 
the eastern sk3% He felt a little sick at the stomach, 
and hcav}- about the head, and at first his step was a 
little unsteady ; and the cold air struck him with a sort 
of nervous chill. The exercise of walking quickened 
the circulation to a pleasant glow. The respiration of 
the pure cold air seemed to restore the wonted tone of 
his strong, healthy system ; and above all, the first 
joyous and exultant sensation of freedom, of libert}^, 
of escape, flashed electrically over his nerves, and he 


122 


THE PORTRAIT. 


seemed to tread the air. With what a wonderful glory 
the eastern was glowing, as if the snn was hasten- 
ing up to greet and cheer him! How limitless was 
the expanse that bent so far off, and so free over him, 
while the ver}^ earth spread and stretched and ran out, 
in endless perspective, asking him to traverse it I 
For a mile or two the road gradual!}^ rises to the 
south, and from its elevated summit Fred turned and 
cast his eye over the little huddle of houses and huts, 
of shops and cots, and sheds and hovels, that la}^ but 
a step below him, in the midst of which, dark and sol- 
itary, arose the house of the Prophet, and the home of 
the presidency, with the Tower of Prophecy at one 
angle. There was Aunt Sally, and Rose, and the 
Prophet, and there was the scene of vision, dream 
and trance, fresh in his still distempered fancy, and 
bright and distinct in the grasp of young memory. 
Above all, and not far off, seemed the ridge of the 
lake, vast and boundless as the ocean, from which his 
eye fell again upon the still sleeping town, from which, 
with its shows and shams, its pulleys, springs and cur- 
tains, he now turned forever. Mantua was twent3'-eight 
or thirty miles awa^", and all around him was the bright, 
jfree, happ^ world. 


CHAPTER XXII. 


TWICE BOUND. 

I N the north-east corner of Mantua was the farm of 
Deacon Carman. At the beginning of the century 
he had followed his elder brother into the woods, and 
chopped and logged, and burned and cleared, and 
fenced and built ; hunted with the Indians, and fought 
against them ; married and reared children ; and now 
still hale and vigorous, moral and abstemious, honest 
and religious, he had the year before taken the pre- 
miums for the best farm, and for the largest yield of 
corn. His farm lay on beautiful slopes, rolling swells, 
and wide vales of wonderfully fertile land. An east 
and west road bounded it southerl}^, extending into the 
wooded hills of Hiram east, which it traversed as a 
trail, crossing the Cuyahoga River at the Rapids, while 
a north and south highway divided it, and led into the 
extensive woods of Auburn and Welchfield, north. 

A fine two-story farm-house, barns and out-buildings, 
occupied the north-west angle, made by these inter- 
secting roads, in front of which was a wonderful pear- 
tree, fianked by a tiurifty growth of cherry-trees of 
many varieties. The yard was neatly fenced and 
.clean, the house one of the best in the township ; in the 
^^ear of it were extensive orchards, enclosed fields, and 


124 


THE PORTRAIT. 


broad pasture lands. Below the highway, to the east, 
spread out wide and beautiful meadows, through which 
flowed a stream, formed by numerous springs that 
arose on the farm. 

In that far-off time, no more valuable, or a better- 
cared for, domain acknowledged the ownership of any 
single proprietor in all that region, now rapidly filling 
up, and growing in wealth and beauty. 

Mrs. Carman, a stoutish, comely' dame, of a little 
better origin than the average, had a still bright face, 
flashing black eyes, and a temper that also flashed at 
times. The eldest daughter, Sarah, was a tall, well-grown, 
honest, handsome country lass, of fifteen. The only son, 
Elias, was a square, broad-browed, promising boy of 
twelve ; and Martha, the 3’oungest, was a dark, demure 
little maid of eight. These, with hired help — men on 
the farm, and spinning-girls — constituted the family. 

In those da^s of practical democracy, the hired 
young men and women were from families of the same 
level with the master, and had the usual privileges and 
consideration of the regular members of the family ; 
and it excited no comment when the eldest daughter 
of the Chief Justice of the State, a resident of this 
region, with the entire approbation of her family, mar- 
ried the hired man on her father’s farm. 

In this family, to work on this farm as a bound ap- 
prentice, Fred willingly found himself, a few da3’s after 
his escape from the saints. 

He had gone at once to his old friend William Skin- 
ner, who had consulted Fenton, Sim Shelden, and 
especiall^^ Judge Carman, the elder brother of Seth ; 
and it was thought that under the purview of the stat- 


TWICE BOUND. 


125 


utes, the trustees of the township had power to bind 
him out, as a destitute, homeless waif, who had as 
much business to be in Mantua as anywhere, though it 
was more than doubted that he had any business to be 
at all. Deacon Carman had been applied to, and was 
willing to try him. Aunt Mar}’, as Mrs. Carman was 
called in her neighborhood, came into the arrangement 
with pronounced reluctance and great misgiving. 

She did not know about this boy, who came out of 
the dirt, and nobody knew where, or how, he crawled 
out, and who had lived two years with the Mormons, 
and nobody knew what he had learned there, or why 
he left. She finally gave in ; and with the same for- 
malities and provisions with which Sam Warden had 
bound him to John Green, the authorities made him 
the thrall of the good, pious, and honest Carman. 
Being now of nominal discretion, Fred had signed the 
indentures, and out of abundant caution, the mark of 
Sam was also secured to the instrument. It was 
thought that possibly John Green might attempt to 
reclaim him, and hence the action in the premises. 

On his first arrival, madam regarded him with a 
wholesome and uncomfortable distrust, and for a long 
time looked at him askance. She carefully kept count 
of the spoons, and intimated to her trusting and simple* 
hearted spouse the necessity of keeping the saddles, 
bridles^ and halters under lock and key. The fact that 
the poor lad was tall and well-formed, and had a frank, 
honest, open bo3’-face, and was so quiet, and gentle, 
and respectful, so seemingly well-bred and modest, 
was at first all against him. Then his hands were 
white, and he brought with him broadcloth clothes, 


126 


THE PORTRAIT. 


and seemed so anxious to do, that she was quite de- 
cided that he never would. He would grow up there 
with her girls and Elias ; and there was always some- 
thing in persons of his sort that was sure to come out, 
and often in the line of their parents^ offending. It 
was not here as in New London, in her father’s family, 
where a bound boy had a place which was not in the 
family circle. Well, she could only trust in Provi- 
dence, — and what was practically much more effect- 
ive, she would watch and manage, and whatever might 
happen, she would at least have this enduring and 
accustomed comfort, — “I always told you just how 
’t would turn out.” 

To the kind, true, honest-hearted Sarah, he was at 
first a pleasant surprise, and then an object of steady, 
friendly regard. She had not then been away at school, 
and her Windham cousins did not gain much by her 
mental comparison. lie was not noisy and rough, nor 
sulky and shy and awkward. He was quiet and gentle, 
and so anxious to oblige and please. It did not occur 
to her that he was handsome, or looked well ; she could 
look right into eyes as honest as her own, and she 
trusted him. Besides, he helped her about her flower- 
beds. Elias was not, at first, inclined to consort much 
with him ; but he could manage horses, knew all about 
guns, and the woods, and seemed brave and fearless ; 
so that he soon grew to the proportions of a hero.. 

Uncle Seth took him with confidepce a^d trpst. The 
poor youth had much to learn, and was inot yery quick, 
or very ingenious or inventive ; but ihe was true and 
docile. Whatever he was told to do he did, and as he 
was told ; no obstacle hindered, and no di^cu.lty dia- 


TtViCE BOtJifb. 


127 


COtiragect him. If a hindrance arose, his courage and 
determination arose with it, when his mind became 
quick and active. Before he had been there a months 
the old man was satisfied that there was not a hair or 
fibre in his whole make-up that was not true and manly. 

They found him disinclined to speak of himself or his 
past life. He never mentioned the Greens, and avoided 
all reference to the Mormons. They were surprised at 
his intelligence, and the extent of his reading, and were 
glad to note his avidity for books. One thing alone 
brought a shade of unquiet to the Deacon. Although 
Fred went cheerfully to the South School-house, and 
resolutely' and heroically kept awake through the ser- 
mons of Darwin Atwater, he evinced little interest in 
religion, and a disrelish for the Millennial Harbinger, 
and did not take very kindly to Niles’s Register. In- 
wardly, Uncle Seth always had misgivings whether Fred 
ever did read clear through Mr. Campbell’s masterly 
dissertation upon the Holy Spirit, although he was 
never heard to give utterance to such doubts ; still he 
had them, and they troubled him. 

To Fred, how inexpressibly kind and sweet was the 
change which had now come to him ! How gently and 
lovingly the sky bent over him ! How green and glad 
the earth was to him ! With what wonderful kindness 
the woods waved their boughs to him ! The springing 
corn seemed to peep.up on purpose to see him ; and the 
birds sang, and the returned swallows chirruped to him 
from the sparkling air. How pleasant to care for the 
sheep, and pick up the weakling lambs ; to nurse the 
5'oung calves; to be all the day in the glad, open 
air, rich with the perfume of apple-blossoms ! He did 


128 


Tine POKTRAtT. 


not find it hard to plant and hoe corn, or to drive the 
oxen. He got very tired, at first ; but then how hun- 
gry he would be ! and never was there sweeter food 
than the profuse plenty which Aunt Mary furnished, 
ana winch she never stinted or grudged. She was a 
famous cook and housewife. The nights came full 
soon, and full of rest and unbroken sleep. 

Did he remember Lil}’^? Did he think of Rose? It 
is not in healthy nature for a boy of fourteen to remem- 
ber much ; to retrospect or introspect, or think at all, 
save passingly, as the healthful, sweet breeze of sum- 
mer passes on, and alwa^^s on, never lingering much, 
never turning back, and only at times breaking into a 
gentle sigh. Yet, after all, here, as elsewhere, the old 
nameless shadow from the never-seen cloud was on 
him. Had Aunt Mary told Sarah? What was it in 
the look with which she soon regarded him? Why 
could he not have one kind, dear, true, unknowing 
friend? She was not less kind, perhaps, but more dis- 
tant; not less considerate, but less talkative. Fred 
could only lift his eyes, and turn with a mute sadness 
awa3^ He could ask no question, say no word. His 
path might cross the paths of others ; his orbit, for a 
moment, touch that of another ; but, without knowing, 
he could feel that, in this beautiful, crowded, many 
voiced world, he was to journey in solitude, — ever and 
ever alone. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


THE GREAT PREACHER. 

A n event of the season was the visit of Alexander 
Campbell to Northern Ohio, to counsel, comfort, 
consolidate, and confirm the churches upon the Reserve. 
Not wholly had they recovered from the secession of 
Rigdon ; and, although the strong-headed Ryder soon 
recovered from his momentaiy tripping, the churches 
had languished, and minor differences in dogma had 
sprung up, — notablj’ in reference to the many-sided 
and eminently practical doctrines of the true nature 
and ofiSce of the Holy Spirit. Mr. Campbell had never 
been upon the Reserve, although his venerable father 
had ministered much in that field. He had formed the 
purpose of this mission two years before, and his com- 
ing had long been anxiously looked and longed for 
among the disciples. Not only among them did the 
announcement of his coming produce a sensation. He 
was the most distinguished and formidable controver- 
sialist of his time. 

He had already won the gratitude of Christians by 
the battle royal which he had fought for the general 
cause of inspired Christianity, with the powers of the 
common adversary, led by that amiable and wrong- 
headed philanthropist Robert Owen ; he was the cham- 
9 ( 129 ) 


1^10 


tHE i*OfetEAtt. 


pion of Protestantism against the scarlet-robed womati 
of doubtful reputation ; and, later still, he had laid' 
lance in rest for the comforting dogma of endless 
perdition. So that, Coeur de Lion as he was, of schism^ 
In the Baptist Churchy and general heresy against 
creed and man-usage, the granite basis of his theology 
retained the genuine imprint of the most essential Cal- 
Vinistic dogma. 

Late in June, after the second corn hoeing, when the 
meadow grass was maturing over the ripened straw- 
berries, and ere the turning of the grain, long after 
the calves had been weaned, and the sheep sheared, 
whose fleeces in soft, white rolls were running into 
threads through the ros3^-tipped Angers of spinning- 
girls, and a lull had fallen upon the severer work of 
the farmer, the great preacher came. 

It had rained the night before ; and that Sunday 
njorning was one of marvellous fragrance and fresh- 
ness, when Deacon Carman, mounted on his favorite 
bay mare, Kate, and accompanied b}' Fred, on the 
snip-nosed chestnut colt, rode out to the great meeting 
in the woods, near the centre of Aurora. It was to be 
a primitive gathering, in a gi’and old beech and maple 
forest, of all the faithful, of the inquiring and curious, 
of the adjacent parts of Portage, Geauga, and Cu^'a- 
hoga Counties, then as populous as now. To and 
across the State road, west, and then south-wcsterlj", the 
ride was nearly ten miles to the point of meeting. 
They started alone, passed footmen and heavy wagons, 
and joined other horsemen, till, as they neared the 
place, the}" were lost in a general procession, that 
broke up and gathered about the stand. The woods 


THE GREAT PREACHER. 


131 


were full of horses and carriages, and the hundreds 
already there w^ere rapidly swelled to many thousands ; 
all of one race, — the Yankee; all of one calling, or 
nearly, — the farmer ; hard}’, shrewd, sunburned, cool, 
thoughtful, and intelligent. The disciples were, from 
the first, emancipated from the Puritan slavery of the 
Sabbath ; and, although grave, thoughtful, and serious, 
as they were on this Sunday morning, it was from the 
gravity and seriousness of the occasion, and little from 
the day itself, — an assemblage that Paul would have 
been glad to preach to. 

At the hour of eleven, Mr. Campbell and his party 
took their places on the stand ; and after a short, 
simple, preliminary service, conducted by another, he 
came forward to the front. He was then about forty 
years old, above the average height, of singular dignity 
of form, and simple grace of manner. His was a splen- 
did head, borne well back, with a bold, strong fore- 
head, from which his fine hair was turned back ; a 
strong, full, expressive eye, aquiline nose, fine mouth, 
and prominent chin. He was a perfect master of him- 
self, a perfect master of his theme, and, from the 
moment he stood in its presence, a perfect master of 
his immense audience. 

At a glance he took the measure and level of the 
average mind before him — a Scotchman’s estimate of 
the Yankee — and began at that level ; and as he rose 
from it, he took the assembled host with him. In 
nothing was he like Rigdon ; calm, clear, strong, log- 
ical, yet perfectly simple. Men felt themselves lifted 
and earned, and wondered at the ease and apparent 
want of eflbrt with which it was done. 


132 


THE PORTKAIT. 


Nothing could be more transparent than his stato 
ment of his subject ; nothing franker than his admis- 
sions of its difficulties ; nothing more direct than his 
enumeration of the means he must employ, and the 
conclusions he must reach. With great intellectual 
resources, and great acquisitions, athlete and gladiator 
as he was, lie was a logician by instinct and habit of 
mind, and took a pleasure in magnifying, to their 
utmost, the difficulties of his positions, so that when 
the latter were finall}" maintained, the mind was satis- 
fied with the result. His language was copious, his 
st3de nervous, and the characteristic of his mind was 
direct, manl}^, sustained vigor ; and under its play he 
evolved a warmth which kindled to the fervor of sus- 
tained eloquence, and which, in the judgment of many, 
is the only true eloquence. After nearly two hours, 
his natural and logical conclusion was the old pente- 
costal mandate of Simon Peter, and a strong, earn- 
est, manly and tender call of men to obedience. There 
was no appeal to passion, no effort at pathos, no figures 
or rhetoric, but a warm, kindling, heated, glowing, 
manly argument, silencing the will, captivating the 
judgment, and satisfying the reason ; and the cold, 
shrewd, thinking, calculating Yankee liked it. 

As the preacher closed, and stood for a response, no 
answering movement came from any part of the crowd. 
Men were running it over, and thinking. Unhesitat- 
ingly the orator stepped down from the platform, upon 
the ground, and moving forward in the little open 
space, began in a more fervid and impassioned strain. 
He caught the mind at the highest point of its attain- 
ment, and grasping it, shook it with a half indignation 


THE GREAT PREACHER. 1315 

at its calculating hesitation, and carrying it with a 
mighty sweep to a still higher level, seemed to pour 
around it a diviner and more radiant light ; then, with 
a little tremor in his voice, he implored it to hesitate 
no longer. When he closed, low murmurs broke and 
ran through the awed crowd ; men and women from 
all parts of the vast assemblage, with streaming eyes, 
came forward ; young men, who had climbed into the 
small trees from curiosit}^, came down from conviction, 
and went forward to baptism ; and the brothers and 
sisters set up a glad h3’mn, sang with tremulous voices, 
clasping hands, amid happy tears. 

Thus, in that far-off time, in the maple woods, under 
the June sun, the gospel was preached and received. 

Fred, who had tied the horses in the woods, and 
placed the saddles between the spreading roots of an 
old elm, near the stand, in such a wa}’ as to form a 
convenient and elevated seat, sat or stood upon them, 
and never took his ej'es from the face of the speaker 
during the deliveiy of his masterly oration. JMuch of 
it was within the eas}^ grasp of his comprehension ; as 
a whole, it was be^’ond it, and the labor was too sus- 
tained for his boyish mind to follow. Nevertheless, 
the impression upon his imagination was veiy great, 
and the wish of standing in the midst of an immense 
concourse, as on the present occasion, its centre and 
dominant soul and mind, and of pouring out upon it an 
oversweeping tide of irresistible speech, argument, 
logic and metaphor, and of seeing men move and bow 
before it, as now he saw men about him, took, for the 
time, complete masteiy of him, and gave rise to dreams 


134 


THE PORTRAIT. 


that ever after haunted him. After the service, he 
went with Mr. Carman to the house of one of the dis- 
ciples, where they had dinner, and rode home in the 
cool of the sweet June night. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 


AUNT MARY DOES HER CHRISTIAN DUTY. 

A fter the wheat had been harvested, and hay 
made and stacked ; after the deep noon of sum- 
mer, when the white apples were ripening in the north 
orcliard, and tlie thick dark corn loaded the breeze 
with its odor ; when the wild turke3Mien ventured to 
glean with her brood in the remote harvest fields, and 
the shrill voices of the grasshopper and cricket came 
from eveiywhere, and idle little urchins, with a maii}"- 
branched' goad, chased the brown-coated, ga3'-winged 
“ flyers,” amid the grass and ragweed, along the mar- 
gins of the lonel3^ highwa3"s ; before the wheat sowing, 
and corn and potato harvesting, and apple gathering 
and cider making of fall, and the nutting over the 
chestnut hills ; in the richer, longer, sweeter pause in 
farm life, from late August to mid September, the Car- 
mans — Uncle Seth, and Aunt Mary, and little demure 
Martha — went to visit the Morrises, in their home 
near Newton Falls, tweni3’-five miles awa3' , — quite a 
journey at that da3\ 

The elders had met two or three 3’ears before at one 
of the great gatherings of their common faith ; and 
although there was little else in common between them, 
they became good friends, and the Morrises had the 
( 135 ) 


136 


THE PORTRAIT. 


Riitumii before made the first visit to the Carmans — a 
courtesy which the latter were now to return. 

The visit was a matter of much anxiety and agita* 
tion. The Morrises were wealth}’, cultivated, and in a 
certain sense grand people, in their region. They 
lived in what was great st3de for the West; ate with 
silver forks ; had been to Europe ; were a branch of 
the revolutionary Morrises, — in short. Uncle Seth had 
been induced to buy a new carriage — a sort of a 
wagon on springs — the harnesses were cleaned up, 
and a pair of fine work-horses had been kept up for 
many da3’s for the oecasion ; and Fred, with his good 
clothes, was to go as driver, parti}" beeause he could 
handle the horses well, partly because his appearance 
was creditable, and a good deal because Aunt Mary 
still maintained her jealous mistrust of him. The little 
journey was made in mid September, when the weather 
was splendid, and tlie roads at their best. 

Mr. Morris, a cultivated gentleman of travel and 
leisure, had a few 3’ears before moved to Ohio, to take 
eharge of a large inherited propert}", liad built a spa- 
cious residence, suri’ounded it with beautiful grounds, 
and filled it with elegant furniture, and a few genuine 
works of art. 

Mrs. Morris was an accomplished woman of refined 
culture. The eldest daughter, fast maturing into 
womanhood, a lovely girl, was with them under an in- 
structress ; and the 3^oungest, Belle, a child of ten, 
with wonderful e3’es and hair, rich in possible beauty, 
with a far awa}" cousin, young Williams, a boy of ten 
or twelve — the last of an attenuated race, that had 
declined under the artificial life of luxury and inter- 


AUNT MARY DOES HER CHRISTIAN DUTY. 137 


marriage, so fatal to families in large cities — consti- 
tuted the family. 

The Carmans were received not onl}’ with the warmth 
that then characterized the intercourse of the disciples, 
who were preeminently governed by the democratic 
notions which are the basis of Christian social life, but 
with the simple naturalness of thorough refinement, 
that will not endure the clogs and hindrances of cer- 
emon}^ and artificial phrases. Thej" were at once at 
their ease ; and Uncle Seth always maintained that 
brother and sister Morris were the most genuine Chris- 
tians he had ever met. So much so that they dropped 
that endearing title of brotherhood from their conver- 
sation. 

When Aunt Mary decided to take Fred, it was in the 
exclusive character of driver, and this fact was duly 
impressed upon him, and stated to others ; and in her 
often-repeated programme and rehearsal of deportment 
to her husband, Martha and Fred, he was reminded of 
the role he was to fill ; Fred was used to the stable and 
drivers. lie had not forgotten the first rude months at 
Green’s, nor the promotion that followed it, nor his 
gilded and pampered life among the saints ; and on his 
arrival at the Morrises, he expected to remain in charge 
of the horses, lounge about the barn, stray about in the 
open air, eat in the kitchen, and sleep an3’where. In- 
deed, he had not thought much about it. Ho was very 
glad to go; liked to drive horses, found almost an 
ecstacy in riding through the country with little prattling 
Martha by his side, who was too j^oung to know any 
reason why she should not love him, who had come to be 
her watchful, thoughtful, big brother, whom she would 


138 


THE PORTRAIT. 


as certainly admire and love all her childhood and 
girlhood through. This at least would be his. 

When the carriage drove through the maple and elm 
avenue that led up to the mansion, Fred was at once 
relieved of the horses ; and hardly knowing what to do, 
stood apart while the host and hostess,' with their 
young daughters, received their guests. Mrs. Morris 
was about conducting them into the house, when, for 
the first time, her eye fell upon the solitary boy. 
“ And who is this ? ” with inquiring surprise. 

“ Oh ! that’s our driver, our bound boy ; ” with indif- 
ference from Aunt Maiy. 

“ Indeed ! What is his name ? ” 

“ Fred.” 

To the immense surprise of Aunt ^laiy, Mrs. Morris 
at once went to him, and giving him her hand in the 
sweetest way, led him forward to her husband, and 
named her daughters, and 3"oung Williams, as if he was 
of the part}'. 

AVas it possible that these Morrises, with the inher- 
ited instincts of generations of culture and refinement, 
recognized this sun-browned, modest boy as one who, 
without question, belonged to them? They acted as if 
they did ; and Uncle Seth always cited the conduct of 
“Sister Morris” on this occasion, as proof of the 
elevation to which the spirit of Christian meekness and 
charity at once raised its happy possessor. 

Not wholly in vain, so far as his manners and de- 
portment were concerned, had been Fred’s residence 
with the saints ; and not without advantages in this 
respect, had he associated with sweet and tender Lily, 
and teasing, coquetting Rose. More than once did 


AUNT MARY DOES HER CHRISTIAN UUTY. 139 

Mrs. Morris, during supper, cast her eye to where Fred 
sat by Maud, and study the dark, ^.arge ej’es, and finely- 
turned and cut nostril, already thin and beautifully 
defined, for a boy of fourteen or fifteen, listening to his 
quiet, gentlemanly answers, and the many questions of 
the vivacious Maud. 

The false position in which Fred seemed to stand in 
this innocent circle, disturbed Aunt Mary, and she 
thought that “Mrs. Morris ought to know.” True, 
they should be there but a day or two ; still she felt it 
her duty to tell her, and put her on her guard, as she 
did everybody; and Aunt Mary had easily attained 
that Christian excellence that rendered every duty of 
this kind a pleasure as well. 

As for Fred, a sort of pleasant glamour came over him 
the moment he entered the house. The lofty, spacious 
rooms, with their hangings and pictures, their carpets 
and furniture, — something in the air, somehow, 
vaguely made impressions, like the haunting memoiy^ 
of a dream ; and he could not help looking about as if 
from something he would catcli a clue to it ; and more 
than once Mrs. Morris found his e3’es upon her, as if 
he would ask a question, and as the impression deep- 
ened on him, perhaps he would have done so. 

During the next da}^, and while the 3"oung people 
w'ere amusing themselves in the grounds, Mrs. Carman, 
seated in an arbor a little remote, and exposed to the 
sun for the benefit of a rare grape that covered the 
south side of it, discharged her Christian duty to Mrs. 
Morris, telling in a very straightforward, intelligent, 
and pointed wa}^, eveiy thing which she did not know 
about the origin and life of her driver. Mrs. Morris 


140 


THE PORTRAIT. 


was surprised and pained beyond measure ; and not lli€ 
least cause of her surprise was, that her visitor should 
have told her at all. Perhaps Aunt Mary would have 
been no less surprised had she known how w idely her 
sense of Christian duty differed from that of the noble 
and exalted woman who sat looking at her in amaze- 
ment. AVhen she recovered, she inquired, “ Does he 
know anything of this ? ’' 

“ Of course. It is talked about all over Mantua.” 

“ No doubt of that ; ” quietly, with a little strain in 
her voice. “ Does he ever say anything about himself? ” 

“Not a word.” 

“ God in mercy pit}^ him ! Oh, poor bo}" ! ” 

Fred, who had been strolling about, talking and 
laughing with the girls, and brighter and happier than 
he had ever been, was attracted b}" the ripening clusters 
of grapes on the arbor, unaware that it was occupied, 
lie reached it just at the pause that followed the per- 
formance of Aunt Mary’s Christian dut}", and was an 
involuntary listener to the conversation that followed 
as above. He heard the whole of it without taking 
its application ; but the last words gave it point, and 
smote him like a blow. After a moment of stunned 
amazement, he turned aw'ay with hot tears in his eyes, 
and his face burning with shame. 

“ Oh, poor, poor boy ! ” The atmosphere of Mantua 
was full of this ; but to his ears the words had never 
before been spoken ; and now the}" were uttered by the 
woman whom he wanted to kneel down to and worship, 
lie rushed away, clambered over the enclosures, 
traversed the fields, and found shelter in the woods. 
More than once he looked up at the sky and sun, 


AUNT MAIIY DOES HER CHRISTIAN DUTY. 


141 


and around, to see if his shadow still followed him. 
lie dashed into a thicket of brush on the margin 
of the field, and gathering the 5'oimg stems in his arms, 
he threw himself on the ground with their branches and 
leaves over him, and groaned, and longed to die. The 
shadow that was over him had darkened into a palpable 
cloud. The invisible chain with which he was so darkly 
bound was now revealed. 

Death would not come, and he thought of flight ; he 
w^ould run awa}', and never stop running. He thought 
of the little hovel by the river, of the dying w^oman, 
not his mother, and of little John, and then of his boat ; 
why did he not commit himself to it, and float down 
the river or drown ? 

But he was born to it ; he might not escape. He 
thought of Aunt Sally, — peiliaps she was his mother. 
He knew that lie loved her, and she had enjoined him 
to remain in Mantua, and then came the image of sweet 
IJl3\ Mr. Carman, of course, knew it, 3'et he liked 
him ; and little Martha, — but she would know, — and 
he arose and wandered about the woods till he grew 
cooler and more thoughtful. Then his pride came up, 
and his inborn manhood, and he grew indignant. What 
had he done? Was he not as perfect in form, strong, 
and as full of courage as other bo3^s ? He would face 
this world and fight it, and would not be despised or 
scorned. Beside, had he not always lived alone ? 

They should go back to Mantua in the morning, 
and it was now mid-afternoon. He would linger about 
till evening, and then go in. They need not see much 
of him ; nobody would want him. He had talked of 
riding that evening with Maud, and Belle, and Martha^ 


142 


ttlE POUTRAlt. 


and Ed AVilliams ; but what would they care for 
him? 

Fred was missed, and nobody knew where he was ; 
nobody had seen him, and the girls took their ride 

without him. As they were assembling for supper he 

came in a little pale, and looking weary. He explained 
that he was tempted into the woods, had wandered 
about, and took the wrong way out ; apologized to 
Miss Maud, and sat down to the table. He had not 
looked at Mrs. Morris, and when he ventured to raise 
his eyes to her, he met her glance full of sweet tender- 
ness and compassion. He didn’t want pity and com- 
passion ; he had found his pride ; nobody need pity 

him, and he avoided her as far as he could while they 

remained. 

The next morning, after breakfast, the horses were 
driven around ; kind words were being spoken on the 
piazza ; messages to Sarah and Elias, and all the little 
nothings and somethings of leave-taking were being 
said and done. Fred, who had kept himself reticent 
and aloof as much as his good breeding would permit, 
was standing a little apart, and posed naturally against 
a pillar that sustained the roof of the piazza ; while Ed 
Williams, who had become his great admirer, stood 
near him, observing him with silent admiration, with 
Belle resting her two hands on one of his shoulders, 
and admiring Fred because Ed did. As Fred retui ned 
his kindly look, he could not help contrasting their 
conditions. True, Ed wms an orphan, but he was the 
heart and centre of this enchanted castle of luxury and 
love, petted and cherished ; while he — 

Patience and endurance, my poor boy ! This page 


AUNT MARY DOES HER CHRISTIAN DUTY. 143 

has received something beside the ink that tells your 
story. Can’t j^ou see, the preternaturally large 
bright e3^es, shrunken temple, and light thin hair, by 
the compressed chest and sloping girl-shoulders, that 
life, and its riches of achievement, of strength and 
power, are not for him ? He may not endure, and at 
the best may onl}' dream. Endure, work, and grow 
strong ; be docile, and learn to obe^’. Grow, spread out 
3^our shoulders, let 3’our spine become a column, let 
your lungs expand and deepen, 3'our blood-vessels 
enlarge, and the base of 3'our brain increase. No 
matter about the rest ; unfold and develop SI0WI3'. The 
germs of great events are being deposited here and 
there, and a wonderful field is to be reaped ; men must 
spring and grow up for the day of harvest. The3^ don’t 
alwa3"S come from cities or the old crowded wa3’s. 
They as often spring up in solitude, and come from 
obscure places. Of the bo3"s now fourteen 3'ears old, 
no mortal can select one of the ten or fifteen who shall 
rule fort3' or fifty 3*ears hence ; and probabl3’^ no man 
could designate one of the one hundred distinguished, 
or even of the one thousand prominent men of that 
coming time. 

It is bitter and sad for you, as 3'ou lean against a post 
this bright morning, so 3'oung and friendless and un- 
knowing. But a field shall be listed, the trumpet shall 
call the champions, with no common men among them, 
the array shall be set, the charge sounded, strong arms 
shall wield trenchant blades, and plumes and crests 
shall be shorn away, and helmets sundered, and skulls 
cloven ; men shall go down, and standards swerve and 


144 


THE rOKTKAir. 


be lost ; some shall win, and there shall be a crowning 
for some. 

AVhile Fred and b^d and Belle were thus admiring 
each other, the adieus had been said, and the horses 
came forward. Mrs. Morris, coming up to Fred, asked 
him to accept a beautiful new volume’of Shakespeare, 
which he had admired, saying that he must receive 
it as a token of the interest she felt in him ; and that 
if Maud visited vSarah the next spring, he must furnish 
her with a good riding-horse, and attend her, to see 
tliat no harm came to her. This may have been in- 
tended for another as well. Fred, though greatly sur- 
prised, managed to thank her decently and simply. 
Then they all shook hands with him, when his party 
entered the candage, and he drove away. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


TWELVE YEARS. TIME’S CHANGES. 

W IIP^N we lose the grasp of details, we lose the 
grasp of interest as well. 

What a long period of time is twelve 3'ears to look 
forward to ! What a little gasp of breath, choked 
with dead dust and ashes, to look back upon ; on the 
thither side of that period I linger a moment, to mark 
the vicissitudes of these 3’ears upon the persons of m3' 
stor3', ere resuming the threads of it with such as 
have survived. 

Jones, with whom was little John, had moved West, 
taking that 3'oung specimen with him, and Sam War- 
den, somewhat improved since Jhe change in the pro- 
prietorship of the Green Tavern, had migrated with 
him. 

Lil3' — the sweet and tender lil3" of the valle3' — never 
reached Cuba. Her disease developed so rapidl3', that 
from New Orleans her mother carried her home to die, 
and herself never again struck harps with the saints 
of the latter days. 

Rose, in time, married a prominent 3"Oung saint, and 
leads and lives the life of a woman in Utah. 

Mary — Maiy found all too soon the inspii'ation of 
the revelations made to her — that instead of being 
10 ( 145 ) 


146 


THE PORTRAIT. 


called by a miracle to a hoi}’’ maternity, she was to be- 
come the — . This was indeed a true revelation ; its 
shame and agony drove her mad, and in her frenzy 
she washed life and memory out, in the waters of the 
creek. — Act of Providence ! 

And Judith, — and the Prophet : on the twent}"- 
seventh of June, 1844, the log jail in the dreary little 
town of Carthage was surrounded b}" a ■murderous mob. 
Inveigled to give himself up on the solemn assurance 
of safety from the Governor of Illinois, the Prophet, 
with his brother HjTam, was now to suffer martyrdom. 
H 3 Tam, blameless, save as the brother of Joseph, 
calmly confronted the murderers, and fell pra 3 dng for 
them. Not so the lion-hearted Prophet. He con- 
fronted them with a revolver, which he emptied among 
them, and then with marvellous strength and agility 
sprang to a window, supposed to be out of his reach, 
and, strongl}" guarded, dashed it out, to fall dead on 
the outside. As his assassins gathered about him, a 
woman, with a cr}' of agoii}^, leaped into their midst, 
and throwing herself upon the fallen man, eagerly ex- 
plored the face, the eyes and mouth ; and when she 
found no sign of life, she rose to the full majest}' of 
her splenditl form, and in her dark and terrible beaut}’^ 
confronted the cowardly slayers, and was left alone 
with her dead. 

In the struggle for the supremacy which ensued 
among the followers of the late Prophet, the deeper, 
shrewder, and more politic Brigham Young prevailed 
against Rigdon. The latter was contumacious, tried, 
cut otf, and consigned by an elaborate curse to expiate 
his sins by a thousand years of exile from the commu- 


TWELVE YEARS. — TIMe’s CHANGES. 


147 


nion of the saints, and departed. An adherent of his 
lingered until, by artifice and simulation, he secured 
certain papers, supposed to be of advantage to the 
fallen chief, with which he too departed, some time in 
the winter following. 

In a small, close, wretched vault of a room in the 
basement of the Presidency, in the centre of the city 
of Nauvoo, a strong building, part residence, part 
castle, half tavern, half brothel, half gambling saloon, 
and all hell ; in a lower sink, strong in wall, strong in 
stench, and strongest in poh’glot filth, grovelled John 
Green. Long ago, but slowly and very surely, had 
John awaked from a delusion which an infirmity in his 
moral conduct had helped him into, — stripped utterly of 
his money and lands, while under its first influence, to 
which fear and remorse lent their help. As he escaped 
from the thrall of superstition, something of his courage 
returned, and all of his old greed. At first he hinted at 
full restitution, then at partial, and finally asked to be 
placed in some position, or helped to some business, 
out of which inonc}' might be made. He grew des- 
perate, and with desperation came more courage and 
less prudence, and from begging he changed to threats. 
These were fatal. The Prophet had become really 
powerful, and brutal as well, and in a way felt that he 
was but meting out deserved punishment. lie pro- 
nounced John possessed of the devil, and sentenced 
him to be delivered over for buffeting. 

This was upon the first emigration West, when a cell 
was constructed on purpose for Green, and where, in 
the late autumn, after the Prophet’s death, emaciated, 
bent, grisly, tattered, and foul, he lay grovelling, as he 


148 


THE PORTRAIT. 


had done for years, in his vile den, with his sunken 
eyes peering fearfully about in the gray light, with his 
matted, unkempt hair, in filth}' dangles, hanging about 
his wrinkled, hideous face, and his shrunken arms, and 
skeleton, long-nailed fingers reeking with the filth in 
which they raked. For a marvel, he was not ma''- 
One human being alone hovered near to watch over, 
aid, alleviate, and possibly love him, and he must have 
sorely tried the capacity of even woman to love. Tue 
sister whose early life he had embittered, whose ma- 
ture life, for his own safet}', he had slandered, and 
whose whole life he had darkened, had followed, 
wPAted, watched, helped, and when she could she had 
cheered and consoled him. She had alwa3's held a cer- 
tain consideration in the household of the Prophet, 
who had a shrewd suspicion that she had aided in th#' 
escape of Fred, whom he had summarily cut off, and 
she found occasions to ameliorate the wretched condi- 
tion of John. One steady incentive urged her to this : 
the fact that a secret dearer to her than life, she had 
never been able to penetrate. 

Upon the change of the head of the Mormon polity, 
Sally had besieged Brigham to release her brother 
from durance. He knew nothing of the case, and was 
too busy. When again urged, he found nobody who 
knew anything of tho case, nor did any record or mem- 
orandum show anything of it. Sally had a reputation 
for honesty and fidelity, and was personally well- 
known to the new President. Finally, toward the 
spring of 1845, ne gave an order for John’s enlarge- 
ment. It did not come a moment too early. The 
door was finally opened unwontedly, — a party came 


TWELVE YEARS. — TIMERS CHANGES. 


149 


and, nauseated by the liberated effluvia, fished him 
out. He was clarified, and carried to Sally’s room, 
but he never rallied. Beckoning her to him, and pulling 
her close down to his blue, shrivelled lips, with one hand, 
while with the other he feebly deprecated the approach 
of intrusive spirits, with a mental declaration to them 
that he would make it all right now, he brokenly and 
still hesitatingly whispered into her eager ear a few 
disconnected words, which w'ould have conveyed noth- 
ing to another, and which, after all, he intended 
should convey nothing to her. Something more she 
would have known and waited for — was about to 
ask — but the voice and the breath that formed it 
never came again. And the only conscious gleam 
of satisfaction that solaced that final moment to the 
dying man arose from the thought that he had con- 
veyed but a doubtful meaning, and was bearing one 
item awa}^ with him, while the onlooking shadows 
must suppose that it was all right at last. 

A few kind hands laid the remains of John Green in 
the Potters Field of the saints ; and in the early spring, 
without money, and a little bundle of worn clothes, 
on foot, and alone, the faithful and now aged woman 
turned her face eastward, to fulfil the only wish of her 
heart. 

Twelve years had brought many changes to Mantua ; 
the settlers had increased, new houses had been built, 
fields and clearings had spread out, improvements been 
made, roads were much better, and the whole was rap- 
idly assuming the appearance of an old, long-settled, 
prosperous, and wealthy community. Uncle Bill, and 
David Fenton, and Chapman, were little changed ; 


150 


THE PORTRAIT. 


Delano had left the store, and Lewis Turner, wliA 
drove stage when we were last in Mantua, and was a 
friend of Fred’s, was now the prosperous owner of the 
old and greatly improved Green Tavern. 

At the Carmans, to the eye, thrift and prosperity 
seemed to have dropped from the passing twelve years. 
The old pear-tree had risen many feet ; the house was 
newly painted ; the fences were upright and neat ; 
ornamental trees larger ;'the yards clean ; the farm had 
stretched east, and ascended nearl}" to the summit of 
the Hiram hill, where it presented a rough and stumpy 
aspect under the afternoon sun. 

Uncle Seth was as composed, sturd}", and cheerful 
as when we left him faced towards home, on the return 
from the Morrises. His face w'as still to the New 
Jerusalem of his faith, cheerful and hopeful. He still 
arose, did the chores, had his breakfast, read whatever 
chapter was reached in the course, and said tlie same old, 
sweet, simi)le, hopeful prayer ; after which he arose, and 
supplying his mouth from the same old steel tobacco- 
box, assembled his workmen on the little north porch, 
where hung the saddles and harnesses, and announced 
the day’s programme, which, like the syllogism, was an 
argument of three propositions : the invariable “ Fustly, 
Nexth’, and Finall3\” He still sold his young horses, 
and took promissory notes, which he alwa^'s failed to 
collect. Indeed, so chronic had this practice become, 
that when one was paid he looked grave over it, 
as a strange event, betokening the end of all things. 
He still sold his .young cattle to Heard, who never 
failed to pay ; and his pork and cider and apples to a 
hungry, promising set of settlers in the Welchfield and 


TWELVE YEARS. — TIMERS CHANGES. 


151 


Hiram woods, to be paid for in days’ works, at lift}" 
cents a day, at chopping wood or in ha^’ing and har- 
vesting; and he always spent a week on old Kate’s 
back, drumming these unperforming forces together, and 
then went and hired two or three good hands, and did 
up the work in two weeks. lie still, on every first day, 
drove to the South School-house, and heard Darwin’s 
sermons with unabated interest and profit, and in his 
quiet, serene wa}", got about as much out of human 
life as it will 3'ield. 

Aunt Mary was still comely and fresh-complexioned. 
She still distributed flax and wool among her hand- 
maidens, and furnished her harvest tables with the 
most marvellous dinners. Her face had softened, and 
the old flash came more seldom to her still black e^^es, 
and her voice was an octave lower. Possibly her 
views of Christian duty may have practically changed, 
and much had happened to modify them. 

Sarah had matured to a tall, handsome 3"oung woman ; 
had been awa}^ to school, was married, and lived with 
her husband and three beautiful children in Rootstown. 

Elias came home from school at the age of twent}", 
laid his great square-browed head upon his pillow, and 
died. He was smitten with a fever ; and when his case 
became desperate, and the family, worn and exhausted, 
knew not where to turn, Fred came in upon them, after 
years of absence and estrangement. In his gentle wa}^ 
with his cool strong hands and great calm e^'es, tender 
and considerate, and nerves that never knew a tremor, 
he took him and them in his arms and carried them to 
the end ; then, without awaiting thanks, went his way. 

Little demure Martha was twenty, a shapely", sweet girl, 


152 


THE PORTRAIT 


with black piquant eyes, and full of womanly wa3^sl 
She had been very thoroughly' educated, and her hands 
and presence had shed an air of grace and refinement 
over and through the farm-house, which such a y'oung 
woman can only^ glamour a home with. 

In her maiden reveries, had the thought approached 
her that it would be sweet to have Fred return in a 
different role from that of big brother? If it ever had, 
it disappeared in the presence of an actual lover ; and 
now the conscious y'oung maiden was the happy^ prom- 
ised of a deserving y'outh, to whom May-day', or some 
early day’’ of the coming season, was to see her united. 

And Fred, — what of Fred? Do y'ou really care for 
him? Patience, for a little, we shall soon see and hear 
much of him. 


CHAPTER XXVL 


BELLE MORRIS. 

I N mid December, in Aunt Mary’s sitting-room, sits 
Belle Morris, as she was still called, notwithstanding 
her marriage, alone and musing, as was her habit ; she 
rises and walks to a window, against the wainscoting 
.of which she poses with a marvellous unstudied grace. 
Indeed, her form could never fall outside the folds and 
lines of grace. It seems at first above the ordinary 
American height, owing to the perfection and harmony 
of all that makes up its completed whole. 

Her hair — of a rich brown, from which, in her day 
of half asceticism, she never could expel the wave — 
was disposed of purposely, a little low over the broad 
brow, to shade its height. Her eyes, also brown, with 
a violet shade, wide apart, were almost too large for 
her face, though that was by no means diminutive, 
and were full of dreamy power. What perfect cheeks 
and chin, with a mobile mouth, made specially to win 
and to defy description ! How short its upper lip, and 
how straight the almost Grecian nose, with its thin, 
delicate nostril! The face wore an almost religious 
calmness, but was warm, and sweet, and alive ; a 
possible St. Catherine, or St. Theresa, but not a bit of 
a Madonna ; she had been married, was a widow, and 
( 153 ) 


154 


THE PORTRAIT. 


now, at twenty-three, had never dreamed of the latent 
energy and strength that lay under her softness and 
sweetness ; and she would have been startled, and 
possibly shocked, at the depth and fervor of the passions 
that were so deeply hidden, that they had never whis- 
pered of their existence. If they had, it was like the 
leaves of a tree moved b}^ the breath of night ; the tree 
feels the stir, all unconscious of the cause, or of the 
power of a tempest. In all the wide world within ken, 
what can the e3"e fall upon that so interests as a gifted 
woman, perfect in her parts and forces, and all un- 
conscious of her possessions and capabilities, save, 
indeed, the same woman, fully developed, swa3'ed and 
controlled, and swa3’ing and controlling by her latent 
powers? Does she dream to-da3", — of what? Does 
she think? What occupies her mind? Does she 
remember, — what images of the past come to her? 
Does she look forward, — for what does she hope? 
She has suffered, as all do ; she had lost the rarest of 
mothers ; she had her 3"Oung husband severed from 
her — oh, 3'ears ago! — and the image of each came 
with the tender halo with which time invests all our dead. 

In the spring following the visit of the Carmans, in 
that now old time, Mrs. Morris had m3' steriously died. 
Death is alwa3^s a mystery, no matter how natural the 
cause, or how clearly foreseen and expected. Why will 
people die? Tlie blow shattered the famil3^, and sent 
the survivors abroad. The Ohio propert3" was sold, all 
but the homestead, so sweetly sacred to the mother’s 
memor3^, and so haunted with her presence. At length 
Maud was married to a Philadelphia gentleman, but 
lived a good deal of the time with her father, when at 


BELLE MORRIS. 


155 


his Ohio home, — and he really had no other. Wher- 
ever the father went, he was accompanied by Belle, and 
young Williams, a ward of Mr. Morris, and a shadowy 
relation. From an early day, it was the wish of Mrs. 
Morris, and Edward’s mother, that their young children 
should ultimately become husband and wife. After the 
death of Mrs. Williams, her son resided with the Mor- 
rises ; and this favorite idea, accepted and acted upon, 
became the controlling one in the association and edu- 
cation of the young people, who grew up with and into 
it. There was a vein of religious enthusiasm in the 
nature of Mr. Morris, which, in a less cultivated man, 
would have developed into fanaticism. Belle shared it 
somewhat, and the idea of a restoration to the church 
of the primitive faith and practices, and, possibly, of 
the gifts and graces of the first disciples, alwa3"s a 
favorite idea with him, after the loss of his wife, came 
to exercise great control over him. Into this current 
the slight, dreamy, imaginative Edward early fell ; and 
the three, living much alone, and always together, and 
with few others about them, save the teachers of the 
children, floated dreamily and pleasantly into unprac- 
tical ways and habits of life and thought. 

When Belle was fifteen, the}" had spent many ^ ears 
in Europe, and partly b}" reason of the failing health of 
Edward, whose physical frame and stock of vitality 
were incapable of carrying far, or of enduring long* 
It soon became apparent that a few 3'ears would, at 
the farthest, bring his life to a close. The children 
were greatly attached ; but their love was purely of a 
spiritual, unimpassioned type, and such as might well 
subsist between two enthusiastic young girls. On the 


156 


THE PORTRAIT. 


part of Edward, it was the love of a rarefied devotee 
for a canonized saint, which no touch of earth had col- 
ored ; on that of Belle, the tenderness of a sister for a 
helpless brother, elevated her spiritual S3^mpathies, 
and an ardent and exalted wish to associate with such 
celestial essences as a purified soul ma}^ become in 
beatitude after death. As it became apparent that 
Edward must inevitably soon undergo this change, 
the desire to be united in the bands of marriage 
became strong in their hearts, and Belle’s father was 
in a morbid frame of mind, which made him readily 
acquiesce. Maud and her husband were in America, 
and no voice was there to suggest dela}", or a doubt of 
the expediency of the proposed marriage. When Belle, 
who matured slowly, was sixteen, and Edward, who 
was twenty', and incapable of maturity, at the Amer- 
ican Legation, in Naples, the}' were married. No dif- 
ference in their relations occurred, and none in their 
mode of life, save that they occupied a suite of rooms 
in common ; and when, at the end of six months, the 
feeble flame of Edward’s life grew fainter, and at last 
went out, the bride, who had become a widow, with the 
deep, earnest sorrow of a tender and devoted sister for 
a lost brother, mourned for a husband who was only a 
bridegroom. Nothing on earth was purer, tenderer, 
and holier than this union, and none so free from 
the passion and ecstasy of the lower world. The 
mourners returned to the United States with the re- 
mains of the lost one. He had lived the full and 
ripened life allotted hini, and performed the only mission 
possible to him. He had been the love, stay, and hope 
of a bereaved, unknowing, hoping mother ; had touched 


BELLE MORRIS. 


157 


the life, without mingling with its deeper current, of a 
gifted 3"0ung girl, and j^et with a force sufficient to 
shape and prepare it for a high mission ; and in the 
fulness of his time he departed. 

On his return to his own country, Mr. Morris felt 
a revival of his old interest in human affairs, and he 
devoted himself to the education of Belle, travelled 
much with her, and finall}^, resuming the occupancy" 
of his Ohio residence, felt a return of some of the old 
health of spirit. 

Within the last }'ear Belle and Martha had met, and 
formed ver}' suddenl}^ one of those miraculous 3'oung- 
w'omen friendships ; and, while her father had permit- 
ted himself to be called off for a month or two, she had 
accepted Martha’s invitation to spend the time with 
her. As she was also informed of Martha’s engage- 
ment, though removed from the possibilit3^ of such a 
position b3' her spiritual wifehood, which she regarded 
as untouched by her husband’s death, and w'hich would 
render any earthly love a spiritual bigam3’, she 3'et had, 
in an intense degree,’ a 3’oung, fresh, woman’s — it may 
be said, a girl’s — interests and sympathies in the loves, 
engagements, and marriages of others ; for, with her, 
marriaore was eternal. The wish to be with Martha, to 
talk over with her all the thousand swxet and interest- 
ing little nothings that spring out of the rich and 
romantic soil of an engagement and approaching wed- 
ding, for which many preparations were going forward, 
was much stronger than the wish of joining Maud in 
Philadelphia ; and so she came to Mantua, as we see. 

Her association with her bo3’^ husband, her life with 
her father, her sisterly intercourse with Maud’s hus- 


158 


THE PORTRAIT. 


band, a man of the most refined manners, had given 
her an exalted ideal of the purity and tenderness of 
man’s nature, while her life, her readings, and stnd3\ 
had not led her to explore the annals of his lusts, 
cruelty, and brutalit}’ ; and when instances of his 
grosser nature fell under her observation, they were 
the exceptional outbreaks of exceptional monsters that 
still sprang from the great original perversion of the 
race. Not without noble uses was her life ; and in her 
surroundings, especiall}^ in Ohio, the objects and oppor- 
tunities for charity were rare: such as came to her — 
and she was diligent in searching them out — she ac- 
cepted thankfulh", and improved to the utmost. No 
languishing, shrinking, frail, helpless girl was she, but 
full of robust health and spirit, and womanliness, that 
delighted in horses, and out-door, exciting exercise, 
while the serene and pervasive inner life, in which 
she impassively fioated and dreamed, was due wholly 
to the free consecration of herself to the dim shado\^ 
of the past, and the absence of any strong and in- 
spiring cause of change or emotion. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 


THE rORTRAIT, 



ELLE brought her riding-dress, saddle and whip 


with her, and a plenty of robust disposition to 
use them, maugre the December weather. She had a 
room adjoining Martha’s, and communicating with it, 
and in the atmosphere of these cultivated 3’Oung 
women a little world of glamour and romance sprang 
up, joj’ous with mirth, and bright with ripples of 
laughs, and glad with gay streamlets of womanish 
talk. Both had deep veins of feeling and sympathy ; 
both had suffered losses, both had recovered the old 
buoyancy, and both were healthy in soul, mind and 
body. They had no beaux, no male callers, were re- 
mote from a town, two miles from a post-oflice, with 
no near neighbors. But they had a lover, — one who 
for all social purposes was held in common. Martha 
had an engagement-ring, and one large room was even 
then in the hands of a dressmaker from Ravenna, and 
many bright odd things of brides’ wear were in mys- 
terious process of fabrication, or growth, or conjura- 
tion, by the hocus pocus unknown to prosaic man. 

Martha’s lover lived in Louisville, was a merchant, 
and a darling. Next to the luxury of a lover, was the 
luxury of a friend to confide him to, and talk him over 


( 159 ) 


160 


THE PORTRAIT. 


with. These, botli in perfection, were now Martlin’s. 
There never was such a clear, S3"mpathizing, ingenuous 
love of a confidant as Belle. It all came out ver}’ soon and 
vcr^" naturall3\ Martha at first was C03" about details ; 
but nothing could resist the pertinacious, coaxing, teas- 
ing Belle, until she knew it all, and the3' talked it up and 
over, and in reverse, and b3^ enfilading. How inex- 
haustible it was ! It was the old stoiy, and contra- 
dicted the poetic maxim. Their true love ran smoothly, 
from its inception, and as true should and would, if let 
alone. The curious Belle was anxious that Martha 
should anal3"ze her feelings and emotions, separate and 
explain them, so that she might know how she felt 
towards her lover. 

“ I love him ! ” with a sweet frankness. 

“Yes, I know ; but how do you feel toward him?” 

“ Wh3", Belle ! and 3^011, who married the 3'outh of 
\mur choice, to ask such a question ! Didn’t vou love 
him ? ” 

“ Of course ; but different girls ma3" feel differently, 
3'ou know.” 

“ Well, how did 3^011 feel? Perhaps we are alike.” 

This seemed fair, and Belle answered : “ Well, you 
know, Edward and I alwa3's lived and grew up to- 
gether ; and our child liking simpl3" grew with us, and 
in no way changed with our marriage.” 

“Was he dearer to 3^011 than all the world, — your 
life and soul ? ” 

“ Of course he was very dear to me.” 

“ Did you prefer his presence to that of all others 
under the sun ? ” 


THE PORTRAIT. 


161 


“All friends — my father, my mother, Maud, 

and Edward — all give me exquisite happiness.” 

“ Oh, fudge ! ” exclaimed the mocking Martha ; 
“ you were never in love.” 

“ So Maud says, and sometimes she is out of patience 
with me, and asks me why I cling to that ghost of a 
shadow. She says our marriage was the union of a 
doll with a rag bab}’, and wonders I will regard it a& 
binding.” 

“Do you?” 

“ It was a marriage, — sacred and solemn, and for 
eternity ; ‘the twain became one.*” 

“ ‘ One flesh,* ** said Martha, a little contemptuously, 
“ not one spirit.** 

“ Why, Martha ; j^ou sweet, pious girl, — 3^ou shock 
me ! Don’t j^ou look forward to an eternal union with 
3"our Ilenr}^ ? ** 

“ Of course Ido. He is a man to me, the one of 
his sex, m3" ideal, — and I love as a fond, weak, pas- 
sionate girl loves such a man. I believe in him ; I 
want to be his wife. To serve him, cheer him, make 
him happ3^ die for him or with him, and go and be 
with him ! ** said the warm-hearted and somewhat ex- 
cited girl. 

“And this is woman’s love for man,” musingly; 
“ and man’s for w"oman, tho real noble and true, is 
worship, made up of reverence and tenderness ; cherish- 
ing, sustaining, protecting, carrying ! ” And dropping 
her face for a moment, she arose and went to a 
window. 

“ Oh, Belle ! Belle I ” said Martha, “ with all 3"Our 

11 


1G2 


THE PORTRAIT. 


wonderful gifts, whicli the noblest man alive hardly 
deserves, I wish you’d fall in love.” 

“Why, Martha! I have a husband. You wicked 
thing.” 

“ Well, I do, and I hope to live to see it.” 

“ Thank you, Martha. Do you believe persons ever 
fall in love, as you call it? You did not. Do you 
put so much faith in the poets ? ” 

“ Yes, I believe it. I believe that it sometimes hap- 
pens that two who are specially fitted for each other, 
and neither has an3’ existing fanc}’, may see and feel 
this fitness at once, and so fall in love. Don’t j^ou? ” 

“ I don’t know. The nearest I ever came to such a 
thing, was with a portrait which I saw in Florence. 
It was of a man who had died, and the husband of 
another, and as old as my father. It was the portrait 
of the last of one of the old Huguenot families of South 
Carolina. There were generations of that old Norman 
blood, once ennobled, in him, and 3'ou could see it in 
every lineament of his face. Something lofty, and 
noble, that would easily become haughty, but was soft, 
sweet, and somehow compelling. When that portrait 
— it was full length — steps down from its sort of 
rustic frame, like the entrance into an arbor, and comes 
to me, I shall fear for m3’self.” 

“ Wh3^, Belle, 3'ou arc enthusiastic. I hope you’ll 
meet him.” 

“ I used to go every day and stand before it ; and 
the original was one that a noble, true woman did fall 
in love with, and her life has been tragically wretched. 
I will tell 3^ou the stor3'^ some time. We were then at 


THE PORTRAIT. 


163 


her house, every daj" for weeks, and Edward began to 
dislike my looking at the portrait so much.” 

“ Jealous of a portrait ! He was a queer man.” 

“ No, not jealous ; but he thought my interest in the 
story was, perhaps, almost unhealth}^ ” 

“ Tell it to me, — do.” 

“ Not now ; we were talking of love, and bright 
things. Wait till some day when we are in the mood.” 

“Tve been wondering whether Fred might come 
while you are here. Mr. Skinner said that he saw him 
last summer, and he said he meant to come to Mantua 
this winter. I wish he would. He is of the high and 
noble look of your portrait. Oh ! I’d give the world 
to have you two fall in love.” 

“ Tell me about him. I remember him as a very 
handsome boy, and my mother was much taken by 
him, and I want much to know what became of him.” 

“Not to-night,” said Martha, pensively. “His 
story, too, has something of sadness, even the little I 
know of him, and his last visit here was in that awful 
time, — not to-night ; to-morrow, or some time.” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 


FRED, 


OU promised,” said Belle, one day, when the 



-L girls were in a grave mood, “ to tell me some- 
thing about Fred Warden ; do you feel like it now ? ” 

“ You will not think ill of poor, dear mother. She, 
like others, has her peculiarities, and one of them was 
to dislike and distrust poor Fred. She was honest in 
the feeling, and could not help it. Poor, dear mother, 
what would she not give, and all of us, to recall some 
things of the past ! ” ver3^ softl^^ and sadl3\ 

“Fred lived with us for about two ^^ears, as a bound 
boy. How strange that seems to me ! He was faith- 
ful, quiet, and unassuming. You’ve heard — ? ” 

“ Yes,” a little impatiently. 

“ Well, of course he knew of that, and seemed veiy 
sad for a long time after we came back from your house ; 
I think he must have heard something while we were gone. 
He never went an^^where, unless specially" asked, and sel- 
dom then ; when not at work he was reading, unless he 
was in the woods with a gun, or training a horce. He 
went to school the two winters, and I remember him as 
very quiet, veiy pleasant, and thoughtful. Father was 
ver}’ much attached to him, and he and ’Lias became 
very warm friends, or would have been. Well, mother 


( 164 ) 


FRED. 


165 


did not like him, could not bear him ; he could do 
nothing to suit her, and finally did not try much. She 
seemed somehow to fear that Sarah would think too 
much of him, and was finding ways to keep him at work 
in the kitchen, or somewhere, and I fear he did not for- 
get that be was a bound bo)', whatever else he may 
have had to remember ; and the older he grew, the 
more attentive mother became, and her watchfulness 
increased. Father is easy, and perhaps was not verj 
observing, and I don’t know what he could do, had he 
known everything. Fred never complained to father, 
and never answered mother back ; but I could see, as I 
grew older, that the poor fellow had a sad life of it. 
Sarah was gone away a 3 ’ear to school, and then he 
was less anno^^ed, but then mother seemed to be afraid 
of his influence over Elias. When Sarah came home 
from school, things were worse than ever. She was a 
young lady, and Fred almost a 3 "oung man, and could 
do many things for her. Heaven knows no 3 'oung 
man could be more modest and respectful, and Sarah 
was very much inclined to treat him as he deserved. I 
never knew what mother’s real intentions were, whether 
to annoy him, until he would go, or what. It came 
finally to a crisis. I can’t remember — don’t know 
that I ever knew — what the last cause was. I fear 
what preceded it was more than ample. Sarah and 1 
were both present, — it was in our garden, and he had 
been doing something for her, when mother came, and 
spoke sharply to him for it. Then he turned to her 
very quietly, and said — he was very pale, and there 
was something queer in his eyes which I will never 
forget — ‘ Mrs. Carman ’ — he was always accustomed 


166 


THE PORTRAIT. 


to address her in this way — ‘Mrs. Carman, I will 

go.* ‘Go — go where ? you ’ Poor mother had 

a temper and a tongue ; and ** — holding down her 
head — “ we had to hear her. Sarah walked away. 
I remained. Fred soon went. He went up to the 
room — which is now mine — where he slept, and packed 
up his few things, and came down. Mother remained 
under the influence of her temper, and told him to 
leave them ; that if he went he would go as he came, 

a . He laid down the bundle, his overcoat and 

boots, and, without a word, walked out ; and** — with 
a tremor in her voice — “we never saw him for six 
years.** 

“ Martha ! Oh, Martha ! ** cried Belle, in anguish. 

After a moment : “ Father was away from home, and 
when he came nothing was done, and little said, — 
father gathered up all Fred’s things, had them put in 
good order, and placed in a small trunk, and took them 
to Mr. Skinner*s, one of Fred’s friends ; but he nevei 
took them, and I don’t know what became of them.” 

“ If he should ever marry,” said Belle, “his wife will 
reclaim that little trunk, if it is in existence. What 
became of him ? ** 

“ Oh, I can’t tell ! I think he was away for a 3'ear 
or two ; lie never did stay in Mantua after that. His 
aunt or mother — she may have been neither — gave 
him eight or ten eagles when he left the Mormons ; he 
showed them to us once when he first came. He 
bought a few books with some of the mone}", and must 
have had the rest when he left. We used to hear about 
him, and all manner of stories, — that he had gone 
back to the Mormons ; that he had gone off with a 


FRED. 


167 


circus ; that he was driving stage ; I don’t know what 
all. There was no truth in any of them, as we came 
to know. When Jo Smith was tried at Chardon, for 
attempting to murder a man h}^ the name of Newell, he 
was there as a witness, and seemed to have taken the 
idea of studying law ; and it seems that he did, with a 
law3"er by the name of Cartter, at Canton or Massillon, 
or somewhere there ; and then, for a time, we did not 
hear of him, and he had partlj’^ gone out of our minds. 

“ Four 3^ears ago ” — after a pause — “ early in July, 
Elias came home from school ill. We did not feel 
alarmed about him ; he was up and about a week, and 
then grew worse. Father, in those daj^s, was a full 
believer in the Thompsonian practice, and had a book. 
Well, he and mother undertook to carry him through 
a course of medicine, as it is called, but he grew much 
worse, and we sent for Dr. Joel Thompson, a son of 
the Dr. Thompson who lives, or did live, in Shalersville. 

“Oh, dear ! I can’t think of those days of. horror, 
and quackery, of No. 6 , and lobelia, without anguish 
and indignation. Everj^thing was as bad as bad could 
be ; Elias was raving, delirious. We had never had an}' 
sickness, and were ignorant and helpless. Mother was 
distracted, and father, poor, dear, good, precious father, 
was helpless. Our uncles, aunts and cousins could do 
nothing ; father would keep Thompson ; the haying 
had come on, the wheat was falling, and ever3'thing, 
everywhere, was as ruinous and wretched as could 
possibly be. 

“ In this distressed and awful condition of eveiybody 
and everything, we found Fred suddenly in the house. 
Oh, Belle, what a wonderful and glorious thing a man 


168 


THE PORTRAIT. 


is ; what an angel he can be ! Fred seemed like an 
angel ; he was beautiful, like an angel, — then. What a 
miracle he worked ! tall and strong, and cool and brave, 
and low-voiced, wdth the step and touch of a woman. 

“From the moment he stepped in he was king, as 
such men are. Dr. Thompson vanished, and his old 
steam-tub and pepper went with him. A man went off 
with his horse on the run, for Dr. Moore and Dr. Earl, 
who came, and held a consultation, and the battle for 
Elias’s life began in earnest ; father and mother abdi- 
cated, and Fred and cousin Martin took the whole care 
of Elias. Fred would take him up and handle him as 
easily as if he had been a baby, and as tenderly. For 
ten days — for ten da^^s — I believe he never left him ; 
and when the fever broke, and he came to, and it was 
less labor to take care of him, Fred went out among 
the farm-hands, where eveiything was at loose ends, 
and in two or three days he put things to rights. He 
was born not only to command, but to do also. Elias 
continued to mend. I remember Fred spent an after- 
noon with us, and how cheerful, and hopeful, and happy 
we all were ; mother could not do and say enough ; and 
Fred waved her off, and would not let her talk ; he told 
her when Elias was w^ell it would be time. He was 
then about twent^’-two, and still boyish, but had that 
lofty look and wa}^ which 3^ou described as belonging 
to that portrait. He told us something of himself. It 
seems that ever since he heard Mr. Campbell, he had 
dreamed of becoming a public speaker. He described 
the trial of Jo Smith, and the advocates, whose 
speeches made a great impression on him, especially 
those of Mr. Andrews, of Cleveland, and Mr. Cartter 


FRED. 


169 


and it seems that Mr. Cartter had taken a fancy to 
him, and helped him, and he had then just completed 
his studies and been admitted. lie told us, too, how 
he heard of Elias’s sickness, and came to us at once.” 

Here she paused for a moment, while Belle sat silent, 
with eyes fixed intently- upon lier face. 

“ Oh, dear ! Elias had a fatal relapse ; nothing could 
help or save him, and in two days he — died — 

“We lived through it; — folks will. I only know 
that in it all, and through it all, Fred stood in our 
centre to do and cheer and comfort. Well, when we 
came back from the cemetery he had gone, and from 
that da}^ to this we have never one of us seen him.” 
And she covered her face, and for a moment gave way, 
“ Martha ! Martha ! ” throwing herself on her knees 
at the sobbing girl’s feet, and clasping her waist, “ don’t 
say that ! Surely, surely he would stay to be thanked. 
You have seen him since ? ” 

“ Never ; and we never quite understood it. He did 
not go to the gi’ave with us. I don’t know why. Per- 
haps he who thought of everything and everybody, was 
himself forgotten ; nobody asked him to go ; and you 
know he could not help being sensitive, when j^ou re- 
member — ” 

“ I would have gone after him,” said Belle, impet- 
uously. 

“ So would I, now. Father and mother were old, 
and utterly prostrated. We had no brother ; we wrote 
him, and all joined in the letter, — such a letter as you 
may imagine. He answered it, — a very kind, gentle, 
but to me, a very sad letter. I won’t try to repeat it, — - 1 


170 


THE PORTRAIT. 


will show it to you some time. Its sadness was more 
in what it did not say, perhaps.” A loi^g silence. 

“Well, what became of him? Is he alive still? 
Surely there must be a future for him.” 

“ He lives at Massillon, I believe, about forty miles 
from here, and occasionally attends court at Ravenna, 
and we hear him very well spoken of. Father don’t 
like lawyers. Indeed, the disciples in this region gen- 
erall}^ do not.” 

“ Martha ” — from her place on the carpet — “ that 
young man should have been brought back here, and 
you should have been his reward. I don’t know about 
this Heniy,” seriously. “Would that — you know 
what — have prevented your loving him?” 

“ No ; a true woman would only love him the more 
and better,” decidedly. 

“You are a true woman, Mattie, dear, ain’t you?” 
After a pause : “ What a sad story this is ; after all, he 
could not be quite perfect, or he would have remained, 
at least, for thanks.” 

“ Don’t blame him ; I won’t hear that, if I do con- 
demn my own mother.” 

“ And what does she say about him now? ” 

“ Not much ; but I believe she nearly adores him. 
There would be nothing too good for him now.” 

“ Oh, Mattie, what a mistake ! He should have come 
back, and you and he should have loved and married.” 

“I think,” said Martha, “he will never marry a 
common woman ; he would not love such an one. Oh, 
if he would only come while you are here 1 ” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 


THE PORTRAIT STEPS FROM ITS FRAME. 

O Belle stood musing at the window, as we see. 



^ All the matters sketched in the two last chapters 
had occurred, and were narrated to her before. Her 
e3"es were fixed musingl}^ on the outer wdntr}^ world , 
her thoughts with her real self were on the story of 
Fred, which had somehow ver}^ much impressed her; 
so much so, that, cool and unimpressionable as she was, 
she was surprised at it. As her unseeing gaze wan- 
dered along the line of the front fence, from the large 
gate at the left of the house, where the old pear-tree 
stood, to the small gate leading directly across the 
little front lawn to the front door, and over which was 
a rustic arbor covered with climbing, leafiess vines, 
she started with amazement. Was it a dream ? Had 
her rever}’, in its strength, grouped all the fragments 
and elements that had occupied her thought, and 
framed the wonderful optical illusion that for a mo- 
ment flashed on her vision? For there, framed in the 
rude arbor’s entrance, living and breathing, was the 
portrait of Florence. The same lofty, noble counte- 
nance and speaking e^'es, the half wilful mouth, that 
would break into a smile, or set with will and pride. 
There was the brow in its strength and volume, with its 


( 171 ) 


172 


THE PORTRAIT. 


possible haughtiness ; but now bending with softness 
over the eyes, youthful and full of more excellence than 
mere beauty. It was but a moment ; but it was all 
there, and real. The figure moved forward, — the hat 
was replaced ; and taking the path that led around the 
back way, instead of coming to the front door, passed 
before her e^^es a real, veritable man, in the flesh, 
walking and breathing, and leaving his impress. — Did 
she remember what she told Martha ? 

Belle placed her hands over her e3'es, and tried to 
think. She could onl}^ see. A m3"steiy was somehow 
solved, or rather an awful m3"steiy was made palpable 
to her. She knew, as by revelation, that there must be 
the nearest possible relation between that portrait and 
this vision, if it was real. And while she stood still 
transfixed with this certainty, Martha flashed in, watery 
and radiant, from the dining-room : 

“ Oh, Belle, he has come ! Fred, Fred has come, 
and more glorious than ever ; ” and taking the half- 
entranced girl by the hand, she drew her into the din- 
ing-room. The vision was ver3' real. There was the 
veritable 3’oung man, bending over the clinging, sob- 
bing, broken, repentant Aunt Maiy, and tiying to 
assure and reassure her, — That he was not one to be 
loved or regarded. He was only to love and serve 
others, and go ; he was born to that.” 

How the words went into the heart of the still won- 
dering Belle ! 

“ Fred,” said Martha, as her mother recovered her- 
self, ‘‘do 3^ou remember Belle Morris ? ” The young 
man turned, and never, not even in the Pavilion of 
Vision, had his eyes rested on such, to him, unimagined 


THE PORTRAIT STEPS FROM ITS FRAME. 173 


loveliness. A moment, and recovering his seldom-dis- 
turbed self-possession : 

“ Belle Morris ? Can this be Miss Morris ? I re- 
member her, and her kind, very kind mother, perfect!}’’ 
well.’" Yet wondering if this could be her. 

Belle, still dazed, for the illusion was now real, gave 
him her little marvel of a hand, and only murmured 
some indistinct words, like the warble of a bird. 

“Not Belle Morris, — I must correct. — Mrs. Wil- 
liams ; Mr. Warden.” And marking the effect of this 
announcement, — “ The case is not desperate ; Mr. Wil- 
liams was always a little shadowy — 3"OU deserve that. 
Belle — and vanished while Belle was a little girl, — 
and for you, she is Belle Morris.” 

“ Martha, Martha, you are awful ! ” from Aunt Mary. 

“ Mother, Ihn kind and merciful,” said the wilful 
girl, a little archly. 

“ She who wears this,” said the recovering Belle, 
taking Martha’s hand, and exhibiting the betraying 
soWtaire, “might, in her happiness, be forbearing.” 

“ Oh, Martha ! ” exclaimed Fred, “ let me congrat- 
ulate you,” taking the now blushing girl’s hand 
warmly ; “in the world there is at least one very 
happ}^ man, I know.” 

“ I hope so,” in a little, sweet voice ; “ and now I 
here appoint you two bridesmaid and groomsman.” 

“ You forget ! — I am a widow,” said Belle. 

“You a widow! Why, it was only the other day 
that you said you were a married woman. We won’t 
be defrauded this way. Maid, wife, or widow, or all 
of them, if you are not ray bridesmaid, I will not — ” 

“ Be. married ? ” asked Belle. 


174 


THE PORTRAIT. 


“Not have an}^ — I hope to be married,” with the 
little voice again. 

And now, Aunt Mary, having fully recovered all her 
motherl}^, housewifely instincts, came back in force. 

“You must have some dinner.” 

“ I had my dinner at my friend Turner’s.” 

“ Have 3"Ou a horse, — or carriage? ” 

“ I walked up from there ; ” and after a pause : “ Mrs. 
Carman, may I sta}’ here a da^^ or two? I won’t much 
anno}^ the young ladies. I came back to Mantua, 
and the wish to come back here was so strong, that 
I haven’t even called on Uncle Bill Skinner ; for, after 
all, this is the onl^^ home I’ve ever known.” He was 
not sentimental ; but, spite of him, there was a tremor 
in his voice and a moisture in his e^^e. 

“Stay here! sta}^ here!” cried the again sobbing 
Aunt Maiy ; “ 3^011 shall always stay here ! Let this 
alwa3^s be 3’our home ! Oh, I’m so glad 3’’ou came ! I 
thought I was never to see and thank 3’ou, and it — ” 

“No matter ! not a word of that ! I am a thousjwid 
times repaid ! ” veiy brightly and gayly ; and, turning 
off, he dashed at a dozen things, — asked all about Mr. 
Carman, and Sarah, and her husband and children, and 
tlie farm, and old-time things, going back to his res- 
idence, and then about the neighbors, — Hiram Spencer, 
Judge Carman’s folks. Uncle Zach, and so on. Then he 
turned to Belle, and grew grave and thoughtful ; and 
all the time she watched and observed him, and asked 
herself a thousand insoluble questions. There could be 
no mistake ; this was the veritable son ; there was crime, 
or an awful mistake somewhere. Could there have 


THE PORTRAIT STEPS FROM ITS FRAME. 


175 


been two sons ? And she thought of what was said of 
the shadow on Fred, and sighed. 

Soon Uncle Seth came in, and broke completely 
down, and would talk about Elias. That preciously 
sad subject and dark day had to be gone over with. 

They were almost made happy by the man}^ pleasant 
things that Fred remembered of him, — things many 
of which they then heard for the first time. So they 
passed out of gloom again into warmth and sunshine, 
mellowed and softened by the renewed memory of a 
great and common loss. 

Aunt Mary was to have company that night — two 
or three distinguished preachers of the disciple per- 
suasion — and was under preparation for a supper. 
Uncle Seth had been benignantly looking forward to 
their arrival as a season of refreshing, and even Martha 
and Belle were not without some exhilaration conse- 
quent upon the expected advent of the ministers, and 
not without a little anxiety on Fred's account, who was 
rated an unbeliever ; one of the expected was noted for 
the honest fervor with which he admonished that class, 
with little reference to time, place, or circumstances, 
having regard to eternity alone. 

When the guests arrived, they came in the usual way 
in farm-houses, and entered by the rear, where they 
were received by the expectant elders, removed theii 
outer coats and wraps, and lingered for the warmth of 
the generous hickory fire, always burning in the huge, 
jammed old fireplace. Then they were shown intc 
the front sitting-room, to interrupt a very pleasant 
flow of talk between Belle and Fred, who, sitting in the 
glow of the red fire at the twilight, felt wonderfully ac- 


176 


THE PORTRAIT. 


quainted within the two hours since their meeting. In 
their rambling talk, Belle, in the most innocent way in 
the world, had told him of a singular name, and how it 
came. A gentleman, a descendant of the Huguenots, 
blessed with a beautiful infant son, had a Saxon friend 
by the name of Ethwold Alfred, and he bestowed both 
names upon his heir, and insisted upon using both as 
if they were a single name. The child’s mother had, 
for convenience, formed a new one from the two, by 
putting the first and last syllables together, and called 
him Ethfred. 

“ Ethfred, — Ethfred,” repeated Fred, thoughtfully, 
“ Fve heard that name ! ” 

“ That is very strange,” answered Belle. “ I pre- 
sume there never could have been but one child named 
Ethfred.” 

“ I’ve heard it ; it has haunted my dreams ; and I 
never, while waking, could recall it. Ethfred, — that 
is it. I could remember that it had some sound of my 
own name.” 

“ The last syllable is Fred ; and by dropping the 
first, which is not pleasant, you would be Fred, as you 
are,” pla3Tully. “What else have you dreamed of, 
pra}^ ? ” lightly and brightly. 

“ Oh,” laughing, “ I had a brain fever when I was 
twelve, and I know not what when I was with the Mor- 
mons, — that was the land of dreams.” 

“ You must have had some funny experiences. Did 
you dream of this name there ? ” 

“ Yes ; I dreamed I was lying on the ground on 
flowers, with wonderful flowers about me ; the aii* was 
full of fragrance, and a beautiful face was over me, — 


THE PORTRAIT STEPS FROM ITS FRAME. 177 


the face of a woman, who called me ‘Ethfred* — I’m 
now sure that was the name — and before me arose a 
wonderful tree, — a palm, such as we see in pictures of 
the East. I seem to have dreamed this two or three 
times.” 

“ It is very funn}". Did it ever — ” 

The door opened, and in strode John Henry — not 
the Rev. John, they never had that title appended — 
a large, gaunt, gra}’, coarsely-arrayed figure, with a 
New England type of head and face, now much out of 
date. The deep gray eyes, overhung by shaggy gra}’ 
brows, were shrewd, keen, but kindly ; the voice strong 
and loud by nature ; his manners were plain to rude- 
ness ; but he was, nevertheless, a man of power and 
mark in his day and way. He was accompanied by a 
younger man — Morse — a gentlemanly person of fair 
culture and much ability, and rather reticent. 

“ Father Henry ! ” cried Belle, springing to him, and 
extending her hands, which he took very cordiall}', and 
bending down to her, with a warm smile lighting up 
his rugged face, framed in a fell of iron-gray hair ; it 
never could be white, — the iron would never leave it. 
“ Daughter, daughter Belle, bless you ! I fear for thee, 
precious one, lest the snare of th}’^ comeliness entrap 
thee in vanities.” And holding up her soft little hands, 
and changing his st3de of address : ‘‘ The}^ toil not, 
neither do they spin, O daughter Belle, but they do 
meet works of charit3' and kindness ! ” He inquired for 
Brother Morris and Maud, and bent his brows several 
times on Fred, who stood near, an amused and inter- 
ested spectator. “And who is this? He looks like 
a goodl3'^ son of the unbeliever.” 

12 


178 


THE PORTRAIT. 


“ Mr. Warden, let me introduce yon to Father 
Henry,” said Belle, a little anxious to know how 
they would receive each other. 

“Mr. Henry,” said the youth frankly, stepping for- 
ward, and giving his hand with a warm, natural grace, 
that few could resist, “ I’ve often heard your name, and 
alwa3^s with respect ; I am very glad to meet 3^011.” 

“ I never heard your name before, and am not veiy 
much rejoiced to see you ; I may be next time,” was 
the response. 

“He’s not only an unbeliever,” said Martha, mis- 
chievousl3’, “but he’s a law3"er, — one of those awful 
sons of Belial.” 

“A law3"er, and he finds shelter under this roof! 
Young man, don’t 3^011 know that law3’ers were specially 
cursed? Woe to 3^e lawyers I ” with a sepulchral voice. 

“ I’ve heard of that somewhere, I believe,” smiling, 
almost laughing ; “ but then I remember that the same 
high authorit3^ denounces the priests with greater 
severity and justice.” 

“ Indeed, 3"0ung man, you should distinguish be- 
tween the Jewish priesthood and the preachers of the 
Word.” 

“ I think a slight distinction might also De drawn 
between the Jewish law3"er and those of our time. But 
reall3", m3’ kind, dear sir, I’m not law3’er enough to fall 
within the curse,” laughing, with infectious good na- 
ture. The old man hesitated in his opening of half 
banter, as if a little in doubt what turn to take. 

“ Brother Henr3^,” said Aunt Mary, rushing in with 
real apprehension, “ this is the 3"0ung man of whom 


THE PORTRAIT STEPS FROM ITS FRAME. 179 


I*ve told you, who was with us in our days of tribula- 
tion, when our son died.” 

“ And it is good to remember that. Young man, I 
think I shall like you, but touching thy profession, it 
smacks wholly of darkness.” 

Then Fred was introduced to Mr. Morse, who evi- 
dently was pleased with him, and very soon the girl 
called to supper. 


CHAPTER XXX. 


PUT ON THE DEFENSIVE 


HE old-time farm-house dining-room was one capa« 



- 1 - cious room originall}', which was kitchen, dining, 
and famil3^ room, generall3" ; but under Martha’s dii’ec- 
tion new space had been found in the L part, and a new 
wall had separated the dining and famil3" room from 
the kitchen. In the former. Aunt Maiy now received 
her guests, and seated them at one of her profuse and 
well-cooked suppers. The little, funn3", quaint old 
teaspoons, the bowl of one of which would hardly 
admit the tip of a lady’s finger, were in regular service, 
in honor of Belle ; and these were now supplemented 
with real old China cups of a gi’eat-grandmother, im- 
ported b3" a sea-faring progenitor. 

A large and beautifully-browned turke3’ was the 
object of principal interest on Aunt Mar3'’s table, 
which Uncle Seth regarded with foreboding, sur- 
rounded as he was by guests. He thought of the 
old time when he was assailed b3^ a raging she-bear, as 
comfortable and pleasant, comparativel3’. 

“Mr. Warden,” asked Aunt Maiy, suggestively, 
“ have you lost 3'our knack of carving ? ” 

“It’s part of a lawyer’s trade to pull people and 


( 180 ) 


PUT ON THE DEFENSIVE 


181 


things to pieces,” remarked Father Henry ; “let us see 
how cutting he can be.” 

“ Lawyers, as 3’ou call on them, have been known to 
cut up witnesses and other innocents,” said the young 
man, advancing upon the common enem}", and taking 
up the formidable knife ; “ and as they always carve 
the whole to themselves, as Mr. Henry will testify, 
thej’^ ought not to object to such a service.” 

A rap from that gentleman called the company to 
order for a short, sonorous grace, when, with a twinkle 
of his e^^e that could be kindfy, he asked, “ What can 
be done with the sinner who good-humoredly confesses 
his sins, but refuses to repent?” Fred, who had no 
disposition to discuss his profession, and was quite 
content to accept this as concluding the subject, ad- 
dressed himself seriousl}^ to his task. He was that 
rarity among American gentlemen, especially at the 
West, — an artistic carver. Had he known the approv- 
ing admiration with which his labors were regarded, 
and that it was fully shared in b}" Belle, he would 
have felt rewarded for the, to him, slight labor. As 
the noble fowl lay in neatly sundered parts, while Fred 
was learning the wishes of the guests, — “ I’ll warrant, 
now,” resumed Father Henry, “ that if he was before a 
juiy, he’d put that gobbler together again, and contend 
that it was untouched, — perhaps that ’twas alive, and 
ready to strut off.” No answer, but a good-natured 
smile from Fred, who dexterously served the whole 
party, and gladly took a seat reserved for him be- 
tween the young ladies. “ It is a little remarkable,” 
observed the usually taciturn Morse, “ the vehemence 
and seeming sincerity with which lawyers contend, on 


182 


THE PORTRAIT. 


directly opposite sides; and that, you must admh. 
Mr. Warden, leads candid men to doubt the sincerity 
and candor of all lawj^ers. One certainly must be 
wrong.” 

“ Both may be,” quietly remarked Fred, disposed to 
conclude an3^ argument. “ I think I have been in- 
formed that you were formerly a Presbyterian?” he 
observ’ed, by way of inquiry. 

“ I was, at one time.” 

“ And that Mr. Henry was a Methodist? ” 

So I am informed.” 

“ It is a little remarkable,” he went on, “ the Vehe- 
mence and seeming sincerity with which a Presbyte- 
rian and a Methodist clergyman contend on dmecll}^ 
opposite sides of the same question, and that too a 
matter of direct revelation, about which there should 
be no doubt ; baptism, for instance, in which 3’ou now 
admit that j^ou were both wrong. You must admit, Mr. 
Morse, that this leads candid men to doubt the sin- 
cerity of all preachers.” This grave turning of tables 
was done with a mock serious voice, that made it irre- 
sistible, and was greeted with a loud laugh from Father 
Heniy. 

“ Don’t argue with the devil, brother Morse, — don’t 
argue with the devil, even on Bible questions.” 

“ I know one honest law3xr,” observed Uncle Seth, 
quite decidedl3^ “ Mr. Daj’, of Ravenna, is an honest 
man, if there ever was one.” 

“ And everything in the world but a fool, also,” said 
Fred. “ I suspect that he must have been counsel for 
j'ou, in some case.” 

“ Yes, he was.” 


PUT ON THE DEFENSIVE. 


183 


“ I thought so. Our lawyer is alwa3^s honest. It’s 
the chap on the other side who outruns total depravit3%” 

“ T believe,” remarked Aunt Mar}", quietl}", “ that 
Mr. Carman thinks that Mr. Tildin is a very bad 
man.” 

“ He was on the other side. Oh, that’s too bad ! ” 
laughing. Tildin’S heart would compel him to nurse a 
dying fly ; and that mortal man should suspect him of 
possible wrong, is too bad.” 

“ Well, I am not so sm-e of that,” replied Aunt Mary, 
with judicious doubt and gravity. 

“ Oh, they are a bad lot,” still laughing ; “ and so 
bad, that we go into open court, in the face of the court 
and jur}", and in the face of immc<liate and certain ex- 
posure, and lie, and re-lie, right along, and the fun of it 
is, everybody, though knowing that we lie, neverthe- 
less feels obliged to believe us, — it’s too bad. While 
your only reliable men are 3'our preacher and doctor.” 

“ You are a necessary evil, no doubt,” observed 
Father Henry, who rather enjoyed the play of the 3'oung 
man’s spirit in the defence of his profession. 

“ Did you ever think what a real compliment that is 
to the bar? The world is so hopelessly bad, so much 
worse than we, that it cannot get on without us. Then 
if it was virtuous, and holy, what use would it find for 
preachers and priests ? Poor, wicked old world, let us 
each serve it in our way, and not quarrel with each 
other.” 

‘H fear the young man was born for a lawyer,” said 
Father Henry, turning to Belle ; “ and perhaps we 
should not be too hard upon him for what he can’t help.” 


184 


THE PORTRAIT. 


“ Especial Ij',” added that young lady, “ when he says 
that he is not lawyer enough to fall within the curse.” 

The supper w^as finished, the guests arose, two or 
three neighbors dropped in, new groups were formed, 
and new' interests were discussed, with cider, apples, 
and nuts, by the hickoiy fires, and the winter night 
wore on to the hour of retiring. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 


BELLE S REVERT. 



IHE thoughtful Bell sat, — not musing, but thinking. 


“L actuall}^ and not illogically, as women can think, 
and often do. How passing beautiful she was, as she 
sat with her peerless head upon her hand, whose 
little slender fingers were bent back by the weight, 
with the ruddy glow from the embers rich on her cheek ; 
and what funny thoughts for a girl ! He had heard 
that barbarous name — Ethfred — in his dreams, he 
said; but why in his dreams? of what are dreams 
made ? Then there carnc into her mind the discussion 
of dreams between her father and Marbury. Is there 
a new faculty born of sleep, or do we get new power? 
or do some organs sleep and leave others awake, which, 
thus unbalanced, play such phantasies ? Dreams must 
be made of something seen or heard, of course they 
must ; so if he dreamed of this name, he must have 
heard it, and there never was but one child who bore 
it. No wonder it brought bad luck. He has seen 
pictures of palms, and their surroundings, and could 
dream of them, though he undoubtedly dreamed of what 
he saw, and the woman bending over him was his 
mother, and called him by name under a palm in Cuba. 


( 185 ) 


186 


THE PORTRAIT. 


He was not a cousin, for the father had no brothers or 
sisters, nor could he be a brother, for his name was 
“ F.thfred,” and she clasped her hands. It might not 
be, and not a word would she utter to him until it was 
made certain. The germs of these thoughts were intu- 
itions. They formed their final crystallization nat- 
urally, and by no conscious process. And then the man 
himself stood before her, warm and gentle, with the 
mute beseeching light in his e^^es, so noble and tender, 
and so abused by fortune through all the cruel 3^ears. 

Oh, to serve him, to have his gratitude, to have — 
Well, what was the danger ? Hadn't she a husband, — 
in heaven, to be sure, but it did not occur to her that 
he thus left his widow defenceless. But where was 
Martha ? Could she have stolen off to bed ? Did she 
mean to throw her and Fred upon each other for so- 
ciety ? It was like Mattie. Her watch showed that it 
was half-past eleven, when nine or half-past was ortho- 
dox bed-time, — broken over this evening b\' the elders 
for company. So she tripped lightly up to her warm 
room, cheery with the red light of the wood embers, 
with grave thoughts in her head, and a little glow — 
just a little fiutter — in her veins. She arraj^ed herself 
for the night, and pushing open the door into Martha’s 
darkened room, stepped lightly to the side of the 
sleeper. She stood for a moment, and lifting the 
clothes, “ You bad, bad, Mattie,” in a sweet little voice, 
laid herself in her night robes, close by a warm side, 
and was about to pass one arm over the sleeping form, 
when — . Shocked, but without sense of injury ; con- 
fused, but with clear perception ; alarmed, yet feeling 
no fear ; repelled, yet singularly attracted, she stepped 


belle’s revert. 


187 


noisel}^ upon the floor, and in an instant tlie door softly 
closed between the two. 

Poor Fred! “Poor Fred?” Yes, poor Fred I It might 
mark my page were I to portray the low ideal which 
the average young man has of the purity of woman. 
It may possibly not be given to the masculine percep- 
tion to fully appreciate the innate, healthy, inner stain- 
lessness of a true woman. Possibly the language which 
would express it might convey no meaning to him ; and 
were I to see it, b}^ some miracle in my text, I might find 
it cloudj", transcendental, and needing change. I suspect 
that nothing so alarms the sensibilities of a woman 
as when she comes, by a slow succession of shocks, to 
apprehend as well as she may the gross nature of man. 
Fred may have shared in his sex’s want of discernment 
in this respect, but like a great, a very great many 
young men, he had set up in his soul’s inner shrine an 
ideal of womanhood, the crowning grace of which 
was this uncomprehended purity, — a thing to be wor- 
shipped, if not understood ; any profanation of which 
would be, in his eyes, that nameless crime for which no 
pardon could be possible ; and in some sort he now felt 
guilty of this crime. 

Miss Boothe had stepped in late, and he had, with 
Martha, accompanied her home. When learning that 
she was alone, Martha had consented to remain with 
her. On his return, he missed Belle from the room 
where he left her, and regi’etfully went for the night to 
his old room, as Aunt Mary had directed, full of the 
one idea — no, not one idea, that is a mental entity — 
and with this the mind, save b}^ perception and con- 
sciousness, had nothing to do. He was full of the image 


188 


THE PORTRAIT. 


of Belle, her grace and beauty, and for an hour hi 3 
own atmosphere had been cleared of the old shadow. 

He entered, without noticing, the old and once fa- 
miliar room, which seemed larger, and in some wa}^ 
strange. Absentl}" he removed his clothes and placed 
himself in bed ; but when he passed the line of wmking 
unconsciousness to the realm of dreaming realit}^, he did 
not know. At some time, however, he heard the low 
voice of Belle coming naturall3’ into his dream, and, for 
an instant, she who filled his sleeping vision filled the 
place by his side, — and was gone. Had she actually 
been there, or was that a phase of his dream? He 
fully awoke, and she was gone, and there came to his 
awakened sense the idea of having committed a crime 
against her purit3\ True, he was in dreamland, and 
as innocent in thought as act ; but he wondered wh}" 
her approach had not awakened him, — he thought he 
would know if she approached his grave ; and the 
shock, the offence to her would undoubtedly" be as 
great as if he, knowing of her mistake, had iiermittcd 
her to complete it. He was in no condition to reason 
or think at all. He had long realized that the love of 
woman was not for him ; that a name tarnished by" such 
a birth, and in a way infamous, he could never ofier to 
any" woman. Here now was this one woman of all the 
earth and heaven whom he should love, whom he felt and 
knew that he now loved ; against her he had so sinned, 
and she w'ould necessarily" regard him with loathing and 
abhorrence. This would be his punishment. So in a 
weak, foolish, y^oung man’s way, it haunted him the 
long night through, and he arose languid. How could 
he meet her again ? He would make an excuse to the 


belle’s kevery. 


189 


Carmans and go away — if indeed Belle had not already 
left the house — and take himself out of her sierht ! 

He found Belle standing by the window from which 
she first saw him the day before, and as she turned, her 
look betrayed to him something that he translated into 
suffering, — possibly dislike or loathing. She was alone. 

“ Mrs. Williams,” with humiliation and contrition, 
“ I know not how I can approach 3'ou, or how frame 
a ppssible apolog}'. I dare not hope for pardon. 
I was dreaming of you when ^’^ou approached ; I 
heard your voice ; I should have spoken, and saved 
you ; I could not ; I wish you could know how impos- 
sible it is for me to harm woman ; ” a pause — she had 
turned away — no answer. “I will go away at once, 
and relieve you of my presence.” 

A little hand came out to him deprccatingly. “ No, 
Mr. Warden, you will not go; you will stay, we — 
shall ” — a little motion of the hand finished the sen- 
tence. 

“ Oh, that this should have happened ! I, who have 
never hoped for the love of woman, and yet would 
gladly die for you.” 

No answer, save a little wave of the hand again. 
Fred stood a moment ; he could say no more, and Belle 
would say nothing. He could make no apolog}", and 
none could be accepted. He could onl}^ relapse into 
the abashed awkwardness of the clownish feeling of a 
man who blunders into a position to which no human 
tact is equal. Had he possessed the finer nature of 
the woman, he would have felt instinctively that it 
was not a matter for words, unless, indeed, at some 
blissful future, when everything might find words for 


190 


THE PORTRAIT. 


expression. He saw in a moment that he had help- 
lessly blundered, yet he felt that a woman should have 
sympathized with a manty effort to apologize ; and as 
the only thing left he escaped from the room, out 
through the dining-room, and so past the kitchen, into 
the back yard, off across the orchard, and down by the 
cider mill, across the road into the meadow below, to 
where a young man was feeding a herd of 3^oung bullocks 
and heifers from a hay-stack. He thought it all over, 
and it did not look to him, on this bleak wintry morn- 
ing, as amid the dreams of last night. It was all like 
a dream now, and at no time while Belle was in his 
room, was he well awake. He knew he was uncon- 
scious of the thought of ill, and should she be so re- 
lentless ? After all, the shock to her might be as great 
as if, with a full knowledge on his part, he had permitted 
her to commit the error. No matter, there came up a 
sensation of anger to mingle with the sore feeling that 
possessed him. What mattered it ? She could never 
be an^dhing to him, and he less than nothing to her ; 
if she did scorn and despise him, it was but natural. 
She could not be above the rest of the world. What 

was he, but a . It was not a pleasant frame of mind 

in which he turned back to his kind hosts and their 
guests, but it would carry him through under the ej^es 
of Belle, or in her presence ; she would not look at him, 
anywa3", and he would not care. 

And Belle? She remained b3’’ the window, only 
turning when she heard the door close at his exit. 
Her face wore a thoughtful, but anything in the world 
but an angry or disgusted look. Under other circum- 
stances one would suppose that something deep, but 


belle’s revert. 


191 


not at all unpleasant, was in her mind; and withal 
there was a little look of distrust about her. She 
turned again to the window, wondering, perhaps, 
whether that portrait would come again through the 
arbor, and started to see Martha flash in it a moment. 
This sight sent her to the glass, to see what her face 
might tell, but she was evidently satisfled with it, as 
well she might be, and the next moment turned to 
scold the truant. “Well, upon m}^ word, if — ” 

“ Don’t scold me. Belle ; I expected to return ; I 
sent back Master Fred ; of course I knew I wouldn’t 
be missed.” 

“Indeed! Miss Martha, take a timely warning if 
you wish us to cultivate each other. Don’t you know 
that if parties get the impression that friends wish 
them to fancy each other, and make little conveniences 
for them, that they take pleasure in asserting their 
independence ? and your friend Fred would be no ex- 
ception.” 

“ You wise Belle I I never thought of that. Where 
is that young gentleman, pray?” 

“ How should I know ? He idled through the room 
but a moment ago, finding it more attractive elsewhere, 
of course.” 

The quick Martha looked keenly at her. “ What has 
happened, you cool, indifferent thing ? ” 

“ You went and left me alone, and without notice ; 
is not that excuse for coolness ? ” 

“Answer me one thing, — don’t you think he is 
handsome ? ” 

“ He is better looking than handsome,” very seri- 


192 


THE PORTRAIT. 


ously. “ Don’t call him handsome, — anybody might be 
that.” 

“ Well, what?” 

“ Noble, and true, and good ; any woman would 
trust him in a moment,” seriousl}^ 

“ Oh, Belle, Belle, and 3^011 a married woman ! Look 
out ! ” 

“I think that it is when a woman sees all these 
qualities, and keeps them for her own secret admiration, 
that she is in danger,” answered the cool and wary 
Belle. 

“And you’re deep, after all, with 3^our great wide 
e3"es staring about in wondering innocence. Never 
mind ” — as she passed forward to aid about the break- 
fast. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 


A WEIRD HUNT. 



I RED came in rather late to breakfast, and was 


-L remitted to his place between the young ladies, 
receiving from Martha a quick, sharp glance, and 
reproof for his tardiness, and an answer to his excuse 
that “Pete would attend to the young cattle.” Father 
Henry turned his shaggy brows not unkindly upon him, 
and pleasantly referred to the discussion of the night 
before, remarking that brother Morse thought that 
lawyers were, on the whole, a sort of worldly philos- 
ophers, not without their use, though not very well 
appreciated. 

Fred answered : “ That a man with danger on either 
hand, as you see me ” — with a glance at either fair 
neighbor — “has need of philosophy; what can the 
church do in situations like these ? ” 

“ The church can furnish the exact remedy,” sparkled 
up the piquant Martha, with a mischievous glance 
at Belle. 

“ You are to try your own prescriptions, I believe, 
which proves your sincerity, at least. Miss Carman,” 
said that perfectly placid person, with a little emphasis 
on the first word. 


13 


( 193 ) 


194 


THE PORTRAIT. 


Some general talk of the weather, and of the departure 
of the guests, between the elders, with silence among 
the younger ones, till the meal was finished ; then 
a chapter in Mr. Campbell’s translation of the later 
Scriptures, a h3’mn which Fred helped the young ladies 
to sing, a sonorous prayer by Elder Henry, who pointedl}^ 
reminded the Lord of the existence and outside con- 
dition of Fred, and recommended prompt measures in 
his case. Then the preachers went their way, attended 
by Uncle Seth, with the understanding that they would 
return the second evening after. 

Somehow, it was a dull day at the farm-house. Belle 
was silent and thoughtful, and went to her room 
to write letters, and was b}^ herself most of the day. 
Martha, with her vivacious nature and sweet thoughts, 
relapsed into her little demure ways, and Aunt Marj^ 
was uneasy’ about the mysterious absence of Fred, who 
had disappeared. 

In the afternoon, Pete relieved this anxiety, by saying 
that Fred had passed by where he was chopping in the 
east woods, with Hiram Spencer’s rifle, making over the 
chestnut ridges towards the mouth of Black Brook, he 
presumed for turkeys. It was quite late, however, 
when he returned ; and the three women in the fire-lighted 
room were waiting in the weird loneliness that may 
come about women at this hour, in the absence of the 
masculine element, that at least sheds about a lonely 
farm-house, at the oncoming of night, a sense of pro- 
tection and safety. Three rather sombre faces broke 
into warmth and gladness when he came in. 

“ How now, you runaway ! ” exclaimed the vivacious 
Martha, springing to him; “don’t you know you’ve 


A WEIRD HUNT. 


195 


behaved very badly, running off to the woods, and leav- 
ing us alone all day ? ” 

“Excuse me, but really, when^our good mother 
consented to harbor me for a day or two, it was on the 
express condition that I would not annoy the young 
ladies, you remember.”, 

“ I don’t know any such thing ; and besides, you 
should wait till we showed our annoyance.” 

“A gentleman would prevent the possibility of your 
being annoyed.” 

“Well, we are annoyed, you see.” 

“ I can only implore your pardon,” meekly. 

“We won’t forgive you now, — I hope you haven’t 
killed anything, you unlucky wretch, running off to 
murder things ! ” 

“ Only a very dark day, and a very black turkey, 
notwithstanding the maxim that assigns luck to fools.” 

Supper was announced, at which Martha asked an 
account of the day’s adventures, and how he came to 
act so. 

“ Well, Mr. Spencer had told him of a flock of tur- 
keys, over by the Dean Place, and offered him his rifle, 
and he thought Mrs. Carman would like a bird for her 
table, on the return of her guests. So he went out, 
and had struck the fresh track of deer, and was enticed 
to follow it.” 

“ Just like a man ! ” put in Martha. 

“ Well, he came upon the deer, and his gun snapped.” 

“ Served you right ; and the deer snapped her fingers 
at you, I s’pose.” 

“ Exactly ! Well, he saw it several times ; it had a 
funny way of disappearing, and then suddenly being 


196 


THE PORTRAIT. 


before him, like the white witch doe, that nothing was 
to kill, and finally away across Black Brook, he found 
himself lost.” ^ 

The Irishman found himself lost ! ” exclaimed 
Martha. “ Well, sir, when did you lose yourself found 
again ? ” 

“Not till now. Well, having got me hopelessly 
snarled up, the deer disappeared.” 

“Appeared to disappear, perhaps,” suggested Mar- 
tha, “ and served you right for disappearing yourself. 
Let this be a warning.” 

“ Well, I didn’t look for her, him or it, but thought 
of Hiram’s turkeys, and found myself so bewildered 
that I really thought of nothing. Finally, I found 
mj^self somehow in the midst of a fiock, and shot a fine, 
large, and glossy black young tom, when — ” 

“You piously thanked your stars, and gratefully 
started for home.” 

“ I started, but for no definite where, as I found. 
I finally grew weary of carrjdng the 3"Oung tom, threw 
him down, consulted the moss on the trees, and made 
a very direct course for home.” 

“Of course, — well?” 

“ After a half-hour’s walk I came upon a fine, black, 
young tom turke}", that somebody had just shot, which 
looked somehow familiar ; and sure enough, close by, 
was a track which m^^ boot just fitted.” 

Laughter from the ladies. 

“ T resumed the turkey, and my journey. That par- 
ticular tom had the peculiarity of rapidly growing 
heavy, and I soon abandoned him, no{withstanding 
Mrs. Carman’s possible wishes.” 


A WEIRD HUKT. 


197 


u\Vell? — ” 

“Well, I came upon another freshly shot young 
tom turke}", in a few minutes, and, as he was rather 
fresh and fine, and thinking Mrs. Carman might find 
him acceptable, and as he was thus providentially 
thrown in my wa}", I thought I would carry him to her. 
After a little tramp, I changed m}^ mind, remembering 
that she had turke}’ last night ; so I dropped him also, 
but somehow he wouldn’t stay dropped, for within ten 
minutes I came upon him again. You see, ladies, go 
where I would, do what I would, that particular and 
very unlucky young tom haunted me. This time I 
took a very deliberate survey of him, and of myself, 
mentally, and of my whole life.” 

“ What an ugly view you must have had ! ” 

“ I did, — I assure you.” 

“Well, what was your conclusion?” 

“ To adhere to that tom, and change my course of 
travel, and possibly of life.” 

“That was profound, though late. Well?” 

“It was not well. I soon found myself in the 
trail leading up through to Troy — I believe Welch- 
field is now called — and of course thought that my 
resolution had met with an immediate blessing. I had 
gone perhaps a mile, when just at that moment the 
clouds lifted at the horizon, and the sun shone out 
exactly in the east ! It was apparent that the world or 
I was vciy much turned around ; and as it was easier 
to reverse ’myself, I turned immediately the other way, 
and am here, ladies,” with a bow to each. The man- 
’ ner was very vivacious, with a little flavor of irony. 

“And the turkey?” gravely asked Martha. 


198 


THE PORTRAIT. 


“Is on the porch, or was. I won’t answer for that 
young tom, however.” . 

“ Susan ! ” to the girl, “ take a candle and go and 
see ; this tale needs confirmation.” Sue soon returned, 
bringing in an immense and glossy black turkey, so 
black that it seemed to shed twilight through the 
room. 

“ Wh}", what an unearthl}^ weird monster it is ! 
Take it out,” with affected fright. 

“ Fred,” resumed the young lady, with immense 
solemnity, “ let this day’s wanderings and misadven- 
tures, with its warnings and sufferings, remain an 
awful lesson to you, so long as you live — and remain 
3"oung, and unmarried — never again to desert two 
distressed damsels, one of whom is a widow, and the 
other has not a lover within five hundred miles ; and 
that the lesson ma^' not be without improvement by us 
all, Susan shall dress the 3"Oung thomas, and ma3^be 
he will inveigle two hungiy preachers, and the rest of 
us, with other woes. It is our duty to submit to these 
trials of the flesh, — when it promises to be savor3\” 

During the deliver3^ of this unctuous exhortation, 
Fred had drawn down the corners of his mouth, and 
dropped his e3ms, with ludicrous contrition, and ex- 
pressed his acquiescence in a sepulchral “Amen” at 
its conclusion. 


CHAPTER XXXin. 


THE EXCURSION AND RESCUE. 

T^RE they left the table, Martha informed him that 
-LJ the State-road young people, the Reeds, one or 
two of the Maj^s, and others, had sent over, and asked 
them to go the next morning, with a little party, to 
the Rapids. The ice above was splendid, and they 
would skate and drive on the river, have a dinner at old 
Furman’s, and a good time, and would he go? Belle 
had consented. 

Of course he would, and gladly. He had an im- 
mense relish for outdoor sports, in which he excelled. 
It would furnish him employment, and be an excuse for 
remaining near Bi^lle, who had been almost bodily 
with him all day, notwithstanding her contemptuous 
rebuff that morning, and her silence this evening. 

The rest of the evening was spent in the front sit- 
ting-room. Fred distrait and silent, notwithstanding 
his evident effort at careless gayet}", in which he sig- 
nally failed. The charitable Martha attributed his 
manner to over-fatigue, incident to the forest enchant- 
ment of the bewitched doe. Aunt Mar^" kindly insisted 
on his early retirement, while Belle seemed somewhat 
lost in a revery. Martha fell back upon her own ex- 
haustless, happy thoughts. Fred was up early. He 
( 199 ) 


200 


THE PORTRAIT. 


found Elias’s skates, and restrapped them. Uncle 
Seth had driven off the cutter, an old one was hunted 
out, a pole extemporized, a seat fixed up, and a harness 
and pair of horses adjusted to it. One of the horses 
was young, unaccustomed to work, and quite unman- 
ageable ; Belle, from her window, admiringly watched 
the skill and address with which Fred controlled and 
finally subdued the spirited animal. The morning was 
brilliant, with sun, snow and frost ; about mid-fore- 
noon the State-road part}^ arrived, and Fred had his 
horses ready to start with them. 

When they were about to go. Belle, under pretence 
that his sleigh was scant of room, having but a single 
seat, accepted a place in another. The excuse was 
snjfficient, perhaps, but the sharp-eyed Martha saw that 
the act cut Fred like a knife. No remark was made 
about it between them, and the party proceeded south, 
towards Judge Carman’s, and took the old diagonal road 
that led down past the old Elam Spencer place, and 
thence east into the road up the hill, and across the in- 
tervening table-land, past the Norton place, and so 
finally down the slope into the valley of the Cuyahoga, 
to Furman’s, a quarter of a mile from, the river. The 
whole way was still an almost unbroken forest, and 
one of the most wonderful growths of splendid chest- 
nut-trees on the continent. 

After a little pause at Furman’s, the party pulled 
up on the still solitary banks of the river, just at the 
upper end of ‘‘ the Rapids,” where the waters, breaking 
through the sandstone ridge that here, cropping out, 
had imprisoned them, and caused them to stand and 
flood back, deep and still, for miles, and finally go 


THE EXCURSION AND RESCUE. 


201 


madly plunging and foaming through and over the 
broken, worn, and torn fragments of rock below, — now 
an impassable, dangerous, wintry torrent of consider- 
able width and deijth. Immediately above, the ice was 
smoo’th and firm, and for any extent upward. Sam 
Furman had a cooper’s shop near the bank, which the 
party took possession of, and which was warm with a 
roaring fire. 

The sleighs and cutters were driven at will on to the 
firm surface ; skates were adjusted, and very soon the 
young men were fi3ung over the ice, and sometimes 
pushing the young ladies in chairs, or some other ex- 
temporized means of conveyance, before them. At that 
time young ladies seldom skated. 

One of the j^oung men, who drove a single horse, 
and had two 3’oung girls in his sleigh, amused himself 
and them by driving up and down on the river. At 
one time he incautiously approached too near the 
margin of the ice, where the boiling water broke from 
it in its swelling plunge down the Rapids ; he 
headed his horse about in time to save him, but the 
momentum carried that sleigh over the smooth ice, so 
near to, its edge, that it broke with the weight; and 
although the spirited horse, at the call of its excited 
driver, took the carriage away in safet^^, one of the 
girls, a little Ilebe of fourteen, in her fright, finding 
herself sweeping in a giddy circle out over the water, 
sprang from the sleigh into the current. Her clothes 
buoyed her for a moment, and the rushing torrent car- 
ried her below. Her red hood floated at the surface 
an instant, and disappeared. 

The accident was witnessed by many of the party, 


202 


THE PORTRAIT. 


who, at the apparent danger, raised a cry of alarm, 
when, under an apprehension that the ice had given 
way generally, everybody in terror sprang toward the 
shore. Fred was a few roods away, pushing the 
laughing Martha before him in a chair. He had dis- 
covered the approach of the sleigh, raised his voice in 
warning to the driver, abandoning Martha, and was 
already in full career for the scene of peril. With an 
almost perfect form for strength and activity, strong 
and agile, he sprang forward. Dropping his gloves 
and cap, and flinging his coat from him, he leaped into 
the open water and disappeared. A moment, and the 
red hood reappeared, and then the upper part of Fred’s 
person, sustaining the insensible girl. So far down 
now were they, that the current, in its first leap, dashed 
him downward — a rock projecting stayed him — when, 
with a prodigious effort, he reached the flat surface of 
another, over which the waters ran smooth, but with 
almost irresistible force. Unable to stand with skates, 
he sprang forward, stemmed successfully a deeper cur- 
rent, and uiider his burden reached the margin, in 
which, standing to her knees in swift winters, stood 
Belle, with her arms mutely extended to him, and a 
light in her great eyes such as he had never seen be- 
fore. From this point she aided him ; a sleigh was 
standing near ; pushing the loose seats aside, they laid 
the girl on the straw in the bottom. “ Take her on 
your lap,” said Fred, in a low voice ; “so, — now roll 
her to and fro.” Seizing the lines, he headed the 
horses towards Furman’s, and lashed them to their ut- 
most speed. “ Tear open her dress, if possible,” were 
the only other words he said. 


THE EXCURSION AND RESCUE. 


203 


Ere they reached the house, the nearly drowned girl 
showed signs of returning consciousness ; and when Fred 
took her in, she was struggling and breathing, though 
with diflSculty. “ Strip and wrap her in hot flannels at 
once,” he said to Belle, to whom he resigned her ; 
“ and care for yourself, — you are drenched.” 

He removed his skates, one of which was broken at 
the toe, and ran back to the river, meeting on his way 
the whole terror-stricken party. His cap, coat and 
gloves were restored to him ; and directing one of the 
young men to go for the nearest doctor, he entered the 
now deserted shop. 

An hour later, limp and stained about the bosom, 
with his hair still damp, he entered the Furman house 
to learn that the rescued girl was doing very well. 
There the whole party were, and now gathered about 
him in eager and rapturous applause. Oh, it is much 
to be the hero of even a moment, and feel the strong 
rush and gush of human praise and admiration ; and so 
did it overwhelm poor Fred, that he could make no re- 
ply ; a choking sensation arose in his throat, tears 
came to his eyes, and a devout thankfulness went up 
from his burdened heart ; and all the time he could 
feel a pair of great wondrous eyes upon him, that he 
would not turn to meet. 

“ Miss Carman,” said he. Anally addressing that now 
radiant young woman, “I owe you an apology. Per- 
mit me to beg your pardon for the very unceremonious 
manner in which I left you on the ice a few moments 
ago.” 

“ I will not only forgive you for that, but for all past 
and all possible futm’e transgressions. How glad you 


204 


THE PORTRAIT. 


should be that you are a great, brave, heroic man ! ad 
miringly. 

“And Mrs. Williams — he had now found his 
tongue, turning, but still avoiding her eyes — “I owe 
you a thousand thanks for coming to help me out of 
the river ; and the poor girl is indebted to 3^011 for j^our 
care in the sleigh.” 

“ Oh, I am so glad ! ” said the sincere girl, “ gladder 
than I can say.” 

Then all resumed their interrupted versions of the 
matter, and each of the jmung men explained very 
clearly why it was that he did not also plunge into the 
mad and boiling waters, and carry out the drowning 
girl. 

“Oh, boys ! ” exclaimed the appreciative Martha, “ it 
is all perfectly clear, — 3’ou all cleared out. In a mo- 
ment j'ou rendered it the clearest case that ever was 
clarified, — no use to protest, Dave : I saw you climb- 
ing a tree, — you thought that there was a miraculous 
rise in the river. Well, we weren’t all born to be heroes. 
You all wish that you had done it, and we are all too glad 
that it was done, and well done, because it was done 
quickly. Fred, ain’t that a little Shakespearish, or 
something.” 

“ That, or something, certainly",” laughing. Then 
the young lady wanted to see her deliverer ; and Mrs. 
Furman, with Belle and Martha, took him into a large 
warm room, where, in a bed, propped up with warm 
woollens about her, a sweet bright face, and mischiev- 
ous black eyes, were anxiously awaiting him. Her 
face was warm with color ; and poor Fred approached 
her blushing, the only embarrassed one in the room. 


THE EXCURSION AND RESCUE. 


205 


The attendants made way, and putting up towards 
him her honest brown hands, she said, “I want to 
thank you and can’t ; ” and pulling the poor youth down 
to her, she kissed his cheek. “ God bless you, God bless 
you, and of course lie will ! ” 

When they had a little recovered from this natural 
exuberance of feeling, “ There,” said Martha, “ that 
must do ! You arc a precious little puss, Millie, for 
jumping into the river. There ain’t another girl in the 
world who would have done it, and we are ever and 
ever so much obliged to j^ou for it, and so is Fred ; 
for how could he save j^ou if you hadn’t ? But, you 
see, you mustn’t go to falling in love with him and 
being unhappy. Of course, it would be your duty to 
marry him, but you won’t have to, for I’ve promised 
him in another direction ; so you’ll have nothing to do 
but remember him in your prayers, you precious little 
goose you ! ” Then Fred was permitted to go out with- 
out a word. Indeed, the case was a little too trying 
for him, lawjw as he was. 

After dinner the teams were brought around, and, of 
course, the party went home, the young girl remaining 
till a later hour, for more complete restoration. 

Fred was desirous of going to Turner’s, where his 
baggage was, and turned down a new road, which 
followed the river vallc}^, accompanied by Martha. 
The strain of the last two or three days had been 
severe upon him mentally and physically ; and if Martha 
found him a less pleasant companion than he otherwise 
might have been, with a woman’s tact she accommo- 
dated herself to his man’s moods uncomplainingly. As 
they approached the neighborhood of Fred’s young boy- 


206 


THE PORTRAIT. 


home, he became alive to the surroundings, and pointed 
out to the sympathizing Martha various localities ; 
among others, to a little heap of stones and one or two 
apple-trees in a deserted space, which marked the site of 
Sam Warden’s hut. Further on, he pointed to a little 
knoll in the now thin fringe of forest that bordered the 
river where he stood when his little boat passed for- 
ever from his sight. Never before had he said so much 
of his old-time life, and he now suddenly relapsed into 
his wonted reticence, sa^dng little more upon any sub- 
ject, and left his companion to wonder over the light 
that his words let in, not so much upon his history, as 
on his inside life and experience. 

The}" remained long enough at Turner’s to permit 
Fred to make the needed change in his dress, called 
at the post-office, and returned home by Uncle Bill 
Skinner’s, where they made a brief pause. When they 
got home it was already twilight ; and when Fred 
returned from the barn where he drove his team, he 
thought, at first, that the sitting-room was deserted. A 
moment later, Belle stepped out from the shadow, and 
came forward, holding out her hand. 

Fred grasped it with both his own, pressed it for a 
second to his face, and abandoning it, wet with his tears, 
hunded from the room. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 


FATHER HENRY QUOTES PAUL TO BELLE. 

N their way home, Mr. Carman and his guests 



Vy heard very exaggerated rumors of the incident at 
the Rapids. They reached his house a moment after 
Fred, much excited, and entered the sitting-room 
just as he returned to it. As he came in, Mr. Henry 
stepped up to him : “You can tell us all about this 
wonderful deliverance,” he said, in a way which was 
an assertion, a request, and command as well. 

“ There is not much about it,” said the now fully- 
recovered youth. “ We were all on the ice, when 
that little wayward Way girl jumped, or fell, or was 
spilled into the water ; and as she did not get out 
immediately, a fellow skated along and skimmed her 
out,” with a gesture of his hand, as if dipping a 
butterfly from a pool. 

“ Skimmed her out, did he ? ” asked Father Henrj', 
very incredulously.” 

“Father Henry,” said Belle, coming forward with 
a beautiful enthusiasm, “the young man who was 
driving the sleigh in which the young girl was, 
turned suddenly too near the edge of the ice, just 
where the water, deep and black, begins to move, 
and that sent the sleigh around in a circle, when 


( 207 ) 


208 


THE PORTRAIT. 


this little Millie, in her fright, attempted to jump out 
on to the ice ; but when she sprang, the sleigh had 
moved so far that she jumped into the water. She 
gave a shriek as she went in, and ever3^body was 
frightened, and hurried off the ice. She floated a 
moment, and went down ; just at that instant Mr. 
Warden came flashing over the ice, throwing away his 
gloves and cap and coat as he came ; at the edge of 
the ice he sprang into the air, and I thought he would 
leap to the shore. He struck the water just where the 
girl disappeared — the world whirled a moment — and 
then I saw the red bonnet, then Mr. Warden with 
Millie ; then the current dashed him down to a large 
rock ; from that he seemed to spring to a shallow place, 
where he plunged toward the shore with Millie in his 
arms. It was a brave, noble, heroic act, such as few 
men in the world could perform, and such as the world 
is better for having done in it. I saw the whole of it.” 
Her voice trembled, and a sweet dewiness came into 
her e^’es as she closed. 

“ And so, 3"oung man, your statement was not quite 
true? ” with affected, but very kindly, severity. 

“ Would 3^011 have him become a braggart? ” asked 
Belle, laying her hand on the old man’s arm, and look- 
ing up into his face. 

“And she has not told you,” said Fred, in a soft 
voice, “ that when I was almost overcome, and strug- 
gling on my skates against a sweeping current, she 
plunged in to her waist, and helped us out, and that she 
brought the drowned girl to herself.” 

“ He told me what to do,” said the generous girl. 

The old man looked with a softened surprise from 


FATHER HENRY QUOTES RAtJL TO BELLE. 209 

one to the other of the noble pair standing so near him, ' 
each so anxious to praise the other. 

“Let this noble act be a bond of union to you.” 
And turning to Belle, — “ It is a goodly youth, and ‘ the 
unbelieving husband is sanctified by the wife * ; let us 
return thanks for this gi’eat deliverance ; ” which he did 
in a few sonorous words, to the great relief of the 
blushing Belle. As for poor Fred, broad as the 
allusion was, it conveyed no meaning to his dazed 
perception. Supper was announced, where all the 
details of the interesting incident were talked over 
in all their relations, and many similar incidents called 
to mind. Father Henry was interested to know what 
were the mental exercises of Fred accompaning his 
act. 

“ What did you first think? ” 

“ That I would save her.” 

“ Well, what next?”' 

“ I was afraid I would be too late.” 

“ Weren’t you afraid of losing your own life? ” 

“ I never thought of that, I thought only of her.” 

“ When did you gain sight of her ? ” 

“Just as I leaped, and I feared I might strike her ; 
she was partly down on the bottom. The water was 
but a little over m}’^ head, but it had an awful suck.” 

“ Weren’t you afraid you would not get her out? ” 

“ I knew I should ; I pushed out, came near falling, 
caught my foot in some rocks, and broke the skate iron 
that turns over the toe ; just as I thought I would fall, 
I saw Mrs. Williams within two yards of me, and, — 
of course I got out then easy enough,” with a soft and 
14 


210 


THE PORTRAIT. 


•falling voice, — a silence with expressive looks that 
Fred did not see. 

“ Didn’t 3-ou nearly freeze ? ” 

‘‘ I never seemed to know I was wet until I found my 
clothes frozen. The water was genuine Cu3mhoga. I 
turned two quarts out of each boot with the true Black 
Brook tint, from awa3" above Ma3"’s mill-dam ; ” and so 
he went ga3dy on in answer to questions. 

A little later, Lewis Turner came in, as he said, 
to carry Fred off. He had not seen any of his friends 
at the Corners 3mt, and he would return him in a day 
or two. Before Fred left, he had some conversation 
with Martha about a visit to Sarah, whom Fred had 
not seen for 3-ears. It might be too much to ask her 
to leave Mrs. Williams to go with him, and he hardl3’' 
had the courage to ask her to go, he said, with a 
deprecating look at that conscious young woman. 

“ I will be veiy glad to go,” was the prompt 
response to the look. 

So it was arranged, when, with kindest adieus from 
the other guests, and man3" admonitions from Father 
Heniy, he took his leave of the rest, and went out. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 


AN INTROSPECTION. 



NTIL long after midnight had Fred, with a cease- 


^ less stride, tramped up and down his room at 
Turner’s, in the vain effort to analyze himself, and the 
emotions and vicissitudes which he had experienced 
within three days. The prominent incidents he went 
over and over with, — his arrival at the Carmans, his 
meeting with Belle, the impression she made upon him, 
the strange incident of the night, his attempted expla- 
nation and apology, and the disgust and contempt with 
which she extinguished him, — his wandering in the 
wood the next da^^ — her seeking a seat in another car- 
riage, with strangers, that morning — the exciting 
events at the Rapids, — ; her bold plunge into the river 
to aid him, her look, her joy at his commendation, — 
above all, her meeting him that night, and her glowing 
recital of his conduct. Then he recalled his own emo- 
tion, when he took her hand ; his intention to kiss it, 
which he dared not do, and his weak breaking down 
over it. What did that matter ? She must have seen, 
before that, exactly what were his feelings toward her. 
Over and over with it all, and then he thought back of 
his fruitless quest, — a hunt at the South for the place 
whence he supposed the Greens came, if mayhap he 


( 211 ) 


212 


THE PORTRAIT. 


might lift the veil from his origin, and of its fruitless- 
ness. Then he remembered how the name Jarvis had 
escaped Aunt Sall}^, and other remote things, and then 
his thoughts came back to Belle. 

Finally, he sat down, from physical weariness, to 
endeavor to think, to strip and la}^ himself bare to 
himself. Who and what was he ? It all seemed acci- 
dental and purposeless, tending to nothing. He was, 
because he had to be, and not because anything was to 
come of it. It was all the result of an accident, that 
should not have happened, an oversight of Providence, 
and hence no provision was made for it, and none ever 
would be. He was to go on, or rather other things 
would push him on. He was mixed in with others, 
who were going on that way, and the current they made 
took him along ; that was all. He w'as to have noth- 
ing on the route, no basket had been filled for him, and 
nothing awaited him when he got to the place ; indeed 
there was no place for him. When the rest landed, he 
and the stream stood still, and became stagnant ; he 
would fioat about deca3dng on the surface, until he 
acquired the power to sink, and would finally rot on the 
bottom with other drift. Why should he have this 
stain ? What had he done ? Wh}" should children ever 
inherit disease, and depraved appetites, and abnormal 
tendencies from their parents? It wasn’t the fault 
of the child, and yet he was born to it as certainly as if 
the transgression was his personal crime. But why 
were people made so? Why were they made at all, 
for that matter? He had inherited a disease in the 
form of an infamy ; why had he escaped the condition 
of Jake and Sam ? Why not remain low, and coarse, 


AN INTROSPECTION. 


213 


and brutal, and so remain down, where the mark had 
not struck and stung him? No man had ever got 
above it. The proudest in history always carried it. 

The great Bourbon, was a , to the end, and is never 

named now without this reminder. lie used to rage at 
this, and wander through thick dark nights, conjuring 
up shadows to buffet, and had at times grown familiar 
with the thought of death. Then would come some 
shadow of a thought that it might not be, after all. 
What comfort was there in that possibility? Nobody 
doubted it, and never would. Now he had met this 
Belle. He had seen ladies before whom he could have 
learned to love, and would have gladly set himself the 
easy task had he felt free. Now at once, without 
thought, without warning or note, he loved her deeply, 
intensely*, — pshaw ! he had only seen her two days 
before. — Out of poems, was there ever such madness? 
Yes, it was a madness, a mere rioting of the fancy. 
Lord ! what inspiration came to him, fainting and 
staggering in the icy waters from her eyes, as she 
stood braced against the current to help him ! Oh, 
if her love was for him, — of course she knew. Why 
should he go back there ? Why should he go away from 
her ? If he had never seen her, he would never have 
known what a wonder of loveliness the world held. He 
was glad he had seen her. Then he sat, and tried not 
to think. He was done fretting at or with the world. 
He was in it, could not mend it ; indeed, the world was 
seemingly well enough to others. Belle? of course he 
should love her. Oh, was it not for this, he would 
win her. He would compel her to love him. She 
should be made to see and feel, not that he was worthy 


214 


THE PORTRAIT. 


of her — no man was — but that he was not wholly un- 
worthy. But a bah ! 

He certainly had not appeared very well in her eyes, 
— saving his experiment in hydraulics. That certainly 
wasn’t much of an exploit. Oh, if it had been Belle, 
and if she had been with him in the very grasp of 
death, and he had dragged her hence, with just enough 
strength to lay her on the shore, saved, and had then 
sunk down by her side and died, — what a joy had 
been his ! But this little girl in the Rapids, which he 
had waded in the summer, and where he had speared 
suckers, — faugh ! somebody would laugh at the idea 
of such an exploit ! 

And higher and nobler thoughts, such as he was 
wont to cherish, came back, — old aspirations and inspir- 
ations. He had been marked, — came such from birth. 
The ordinary lower channels of human action were in 
some way clogged and choked up, and his life would 
not flow in them. He must vault above, and solitary. 
Was not this blot upon him merely on the outer wall 
of life, a wretched placard, b}^ which prejudice adver- 
tised the faults of his parents? Did it reach the 
essential self, — the soul? Was not that pure, and 
good, and elevated? Were not his sympathies quick 
and warm, his aspirations noble and great? Was there 
anything mean and sordid, low and base, in him? Had 
he not alwa^'s jealously watched every thought, and 
the springs of thought, — every turn and bent of mind ? 
Had he not familiarized himself with the thoughts and 
lives of the pure and essentially great, and proposed 
for himself a pure and elevated career of labor, and 
devotion, and self-sacriflce ? What if men turned from 


AN INTROSPECTION. 


215 


him? What, after all, were the few years to which, at 
the most, life was limited ? What did it really matter 
how this first gasp of time was ^pent? What were 
sixty years to eternity ? Had he not a soul, capable 
of strong and steady upward soarings? He opened 
a window, and looked out and up into the studded 
vault. “ What an awful sight, and j^et comprehending 
somewhat — at least feeling its sublimity — I confront 
it. I am not abashed and overwhelmed by it. Some- 
thing of the Father God is within me, and I look into 
these shadowy realms, which darkness makes palpable, 
as something belonging to me, and I to it. I am an 
atom of even infinity, that cannot be lost. What 
matter these few days and pangs, and shames and 
abasements ? ” 

Looking again, long and anxiously : “Yet where is 
God, who so reveals His works to us and hides Him- 
self? By what means does He work, and with what? 
Where does He hide His awful powers, and store away 
His incomprehensible energies ? Is He still creating in 
the measureless infinities of space away from us ? Still 
fashioning and finishing? And when these new universes 
are complete, will He return, and bring to our dark- 
ened worlds the summer of His presence? Or does 
He occupy Himself with merely ruling these worlds ? 
How idle that would be for Him ! Does it cost Him 
much outlay to govern us — and misgovern — if men 
say truly? What braggarts, to suppose that much time 
or thought is spent on us. How weak and base we are, 
— born base, some of us, and, when we confront these 
blazing worlds, we know that we cannot be God’s 
noblest work. What creatures He might have made 


216 


THE PORTRAIT. 


US, had it minded Him to. Yet we may aspire, and in 
this lies our marvellous excellence. We ma3^hope, and 
grow, and lift ourselves up, purify, and be ennobled ; 
contemn ourselves, and sordid lives and surroundings, 
and escape from the darkened atmosphere of earth 
and its night-projecting shadow. I feel something of 
this,” and he closed the window and sat down. 

“ Oh, I will struggle to purify my very soul and 
heart, and thought and desires, and be familiar with 
none but the pure and good and holy ; and 3'et I am 
so lonely ! Surely God means companions for us, 
and this beautiful one, — she may some time know and 
feel that in spirit, in soul, I am not wholl}^ unworthy 
of her. Is there such a thing as love and communion 
be^'ond the earth, outside of the flesh, and above the 
senses ? Has it ever been felt or found in this world ? 
Has it not been sighed for, pra3"ed for, and felt, and 
found only to be rags and filth, in w’hich seething sense 
and lust have generated maggots such as, — horror ! 
AYhy do I come back to this ? How low and earth}^ I 
am, — not good enough to preach. Oh, what a luxuiy 
to go up on hill-sides, or in wooded valleys, and call 
men about me, and tell them of God, and lead them 
from their sordid lives. I ? Ha, ha ! I can’t bear to 
think of what I am, or where I begun. What a 
preacher I’d be ! I should avoid churches and meet- 
ing-houses. Lord, how the old theological pot-shells 
should be pulverized ! Oh dear, I would never be good 
enough to preach, when I begin by this self-glorjing. 
Then it might not do to preach the love of God as I 
would be glad to do. After all, do men ever accept a 
higher faith until they are fit for it? When they 


AN INTROSPECTION. 


217 


really believe it, it saves them. If they did not, they 
would be under the old restraining fear and healthy 
slavery of the devil ; so no harm would come in any 
event” — a pause. “ To go forth as in the older time, 
or now, in the pure spirit, and preach a pure gospel, 
with a high-born and beautiful woman, sweet and 
angelic, to love as such might, and encourage you, — to 
let you come to her, after long absences, worn and 
poor, and to be cheered and nursed back to new 
strength and life by her ! ” He thought of Belle conse- 
crated to her husband in heaven, yet loving and sus- 
taining one on earth, and ever in unapproachable 
purity. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 


BELLE S LETTER. 



IRED finished this somewhat memorable visit to 


-L the old home of his childhood, and went away 
as he came, quietly and without notice. He went 
about among his early acquaintances, visited Sarah, 
accompanied by Martha and Belle, and brought his 
satchel down the next morning after the return ; and, 
when breakfast was over, he arose, and unexpectedly 
bade them good-by. He walked out through the little 
arbor, where he paused a moment, and turned to flash 
back, upon the still astonished eyes of Belle, the Flor- 
ence portrait. There was always much of admiration 
for him in Mantua, and now they found him so mature 
and manly, so modest and gentle, and so intelligent 
and Well-informed on all possible subjects, upon all of 
which he spoke well, that well-read men — and Mantua 
had many — were surprised at the extent and accm’acy 
of his information. He was not what men call showy, 
but sensible, and waited to be drawn out ; and, 
though plainly dressed, he had a careless way of wear- 
ing his clothes, at once elegant and free from puppy- 
ism. It was noticed that he did not wear a ring, or 
chain, or pin, or marked color. His manner was a lit- 
tle reserved, like that of one who thought better of 


( 218 ) 


belle’s letter. 


219 


himself than he supposed he was rated by others, and 
who waited to be asked before opening himself out. 

To say that he was not observed, and closely, by 
Belle, would do the perceptions of that young lady 
injustice. Accustomed to the ease and refinements 
of the best forms of culture in the United States, 
and having passed many years in Europe, whatever 
else she ma}^ have found or fancied about him, she 
found his manners and address very attractive. She 
especially admired the unconscious elevation of his 
sentiments, as well as the delicacy and purity of his 
tastes and manner, and the ease and felicity with 
which he expressed himself. 

On the evening before his departure. Uncle Seth, 
who was somewhat hoarse, asked him to read the even- 
ing lesson from the Bible, and pointed him to the fourth 
chapter of Matthew, which Fred rendered so simply, 
naturally, and beautifully, that his listeners asked him 
to go on, as he did, through the fifth, sixth, and sev- 
enth. His voice was rich and soft, his sensibilities 
very quick and deep, and he seemed to deliver the nar- 
rative, and the grand, simple utterances of the Great 
Teacher, in the purity and spirit which inspired them. 
As he went on, a deep fervor seemed to grow up 
and glow, until the far-ofl* scenery, with the spirit of 
loneliness stamped upon the Orient — the primitive and 
curious multitudes, and the wonderfully serene pres- 
ence, calm and sacred, of the young Christ — seemed 
to be brought before the vision of his wondering, 
rapt, and exalted listeners. When he reached the 
last sentence of the Sermon on the Mount, his voice 
trembled in a softened cadence, and ceased. His audi- 


220 


THE PORTRAIT. 


tors listened for a moment, breathless, as if expecting 
he would proceed, and a shade of regret fell upon their 
faces when they saw he had ended, and the young 
women turned dewy eyes upon him, as if he were a 
young prophet. No one thought of asking him of his 
faith, and no one for a moment doubted it. The face 
of Belle, in particular, wore a very sweet and satisfied 
expression ; and, when he took leave of her the next 
morning, they happened to be a little apart from the 
others, and, whether either spoke a word, the anxious 
and attentive Martha never knew. Something mys- 
terious there was between the two, she knew, — some- 
thing unusual. Was it repulsion? Was it attraction? 
She could not tell ; and, somehow, this deep Belle 
wrapt herself so completely from her approach, that 
she scarcely made Fred the subject of a remark to 
her. She thought, on the whole, that Fred had not 
been appreciated ; and for nothing will a woman suffer 
sooner in the estimation of another woman, than for a 
want of sympathy in her admiration for her favorites 
of the other sex. What and whom does she like? 
thought Martha, and who does she suppose will come 
for her? If she thinks as I think she thinks, I think 
she will live to think differently, — that's all ; with 
which thoughtful refiection she only mentally attached 
herself the more closely to the side of her unfortunate 
favorite. 

Within a day or two after Fred’s departure. Belle 
announced that a carriage would come for her the last 
of the week. 

“ Belle ! ” She arose, and went frankly to Martha, 
and looked her fairly and honestly in her e3"es for a 


belle’s letter. 


221 


moment, then bent down and kissed her. “ Tve over- 
stayed my time for some days. I am expecting that 
a letter has by this time reached home, which will 
require serious attention.” 

For a day or two she was a little — just a trifle — 
restless and abstracted, and less talkative than usual, 
— a little coy of words, and not so much given to look- 
ing up when Martha called to her, nor always when 
she answered ; and she seemed not to hear so quickly 
as usual, and answered a little away from the matter 
in hand at times. 

The fourth day after Fred left, late in the snowy 
afternoon. Belle saw a youth enter the gate, and look 
towards the house, holding a letter in his hand. She 
stepped to the door. “ Mr. Turner told me to give 
this to Mrs. Williams,” he said, as if doubting that the 
young-looking girl before him was the lady. “ Thanks 
to Mr. Turner, and this for you,” said Belle, taking the 
letter, and giving him a gold coin. Martha had gone 
down to the Judge’s, and she was alone. She never- 
theless went to her room, without looking at the letter. 
When she entered it, she stood and studied the firm 
hand of the address, in the way of people who so phil- 
osophically question the outside of a letter as to its 
contents. Perhaps she did not care to know what it 
contained. She finally opened it, spread the pages 
out, and looked at the strong, firm, man’s handsome 
hand, not like that of a clerk, yet full of character, 
and, in places, thrown on as if by unrestrained im- 
pulse. 

The first part of the manuscript was regular, easy 
and flowing ; then the characters grew large and sharp. 


222 


THE PORTRAIT. 


running and rusliing with gaps and blots, and some- 
times illegible, as if the writer had, in frenzies and 
spasms, dashed himself in broken and abrupt sentences 
upon the paper, and at moments with both hands. 

Belle read in fits and starts, looking frightened, and 
casting her eyes about as in momentary apprehension. 
Thus it finally rendered itself to her on her last reading : 

“ I hurried abruptly from j^ou, ere I should alarm or 
overwhelm you with the rhapsodies of passion. I 
must speak, — and as you must have felt I would. 
You may be amazed at what I set down here, but not 
at all that I write 3^011. Wh}^ do I ? Wh^* do the waters 
finally break and rush? 

“ Oh, loveliest one — most beautiful — that makest 
the earth glad with thy loveliness, and yet a solitude 
in thy unapproachableness. I love thee, I love thee, — 
I love thee! Dost thou hear and comprehend? It 
is for woman to hear her lover, but she cannot compre- 
hend, nor does he, the strong outgoing onrushing 
tide that would sweQp about and encompass her with 
an ocean of worship and reverence. I would not pipe 
to thee on the lover’s thin reed, nor sigh and bring 
fiowers, and twist garlands of meaningless praises, but 
create a solitude, in the midst of which I would en- 
throne thee. I would snatch from the day its glorj^, 
and pluck from the brow of night its stars to crown 
thee, and then men, with palms and garlands, should 
come to worship thee. I would ask nothing, seek 
nothing, but to worship in distance and in silence. 

‘‘ I am not frenzied ; I am not one to go fanc3^-mad. 
This is not the fantastic, frantic cry of a weak soul and a 
shallow nature, but from depths and strength my voice 


belt,f/s letter. 


223 


goes, — will go out to 3^ou; nature, art, man, God, 
almost, have conspired to manacle, to imprison me, — 
wall me out from your presence, so that I may not 
go as a man would go, and tell you his love. I assert 
myself, wrench from around me these chains, and dash 
the walls of my prison-house into shatters. I rush 
into your presence, and kneel at your feet, and tell you 
that I love you. Only that, only that ! and then I put 
my lips in the dust, and, without cry or moan, remain 
forever mute. 

“ A young barbarian, from the depths of savagery-, 
comes out upon the margin of the hoar and shaggy 
forest, out of night and darkness, and beholds for the first 
time his star. He knows that it is his, and falls upon 
his knees in adoration, and longs, — oh, so passionately 
and yearningly ! — that the star should know of his 
worship.” 

That was all, — no name or initial was appended to 
it. Twilight deepened into darkness about Belle, as, 
with great heaving, gasping sobs, she still lay with her 
head buried upon the table. Is she woman ? or more ? 
or less? An hour later she appeared below, having 
suflered from a sudden headache, as women sometimes 
do. She was very quiet, and Martha, who was given 
to observation, thought that she had never seen so deep 
a light in her wondrous eyes. 

When she left for home, two days later, she told 
Martha that she meant to be at her bridal, but that she 
thought that a widow should never be a bridesmaid, and 
that Fred certainly ought to be differently matched, — 
on that occasion. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 


A MESSAGE TO FRED. 

I N mid March, the whole State of Ohio and the 
country generally were startled with the account of 
a murder. In the limits of the newly-formed county 
of Mahoning, made up of the old counties of Portage 
and Trumbull, just on the margin of a wood, in the 
newly-settled part of one of the townships, the body of 
a man was found, just by the wayside, murdered. He 
was a stranger, middle-aged and dark, and nothing 
was found on his person indicating his identity. He 
was well clothed, and had spurs on his boots ; about 
a mile from him, tangled in its bridle, saddled, and well 
caparisoned, was found a horse, supposed to have 
been ridden by the murdered man. It was said that he 
had been seen, at several places west of the point 
where found, mounted on this or a similar horse ; and 
finally it was rumored that he had been followed 
by one, and some said two, men from the West. Later 
still, it was reported that he was a seceding Mormon, 
and had been followed and murdered by some of the 
Thug baud of Danites, doubtless under instructions 
from the new head of the church. 

Intense excitement prevailed all through the country. 
Acts of violence were rare, and in many of the Reserve 
( 224 ) 


A MESSAGE TO FRED. 


225 


counties a homicide had never occurred. The news- 
papers were full of the tragic event, and the wildest 
and absurdest rumors prevailed among the people. 
The authorities, unfamiliar with such cases, were on 
the most confused alert, investigating and blundering 
in the most compendious way. 

The coroner called a jury and held an inquest on the 
body, where it lay in the woods, with the March flowers 
crushed under it. Hundreds of people attended, and 
many from twenty miles distance. It was in proof 
before the jury, that a man similarly dressed, and 
riding the horse afterwards found, was seen to enter 
the woods just at twilight, a mile from the scene, and 
that a young man, on his way to his sugar-bush, found 
the body early the next morning. Three or four 
doctors concluded that death was caused by a blow 
from a bludgeon upon the head, and other evidence 
was given that the body had been robbed. Finally a 
man came forward, who identified the body as that of 
Oliver Olney. The horse was produced and inspected. 
The jury returned that the man known as Oliver 
Olney came to his death by a blow from a bludgeon in 
the hands of some person to the jurors unknown. Two 
days later, the body was buried with great solemnity in 
the presence of a concourse of more than a thousand 
people. The officiating clergyman preached a most 
acceptable sermon from the words, “ Whoso sheddeth 
man’s blood,” etc. 

About ten days later, Fred received, at his office in 
Massillon, the following note : 

15 


226 


THE PORTRAIT. 


“ Canfield, March 26, 1845. 

Fred Warden, Esq. : 

Sir , — Your old enemy, Jake Green, is now in jail 
here, charged with murder. He is without counsel, 
money, or friends.” 

There was no name signed to it ; nor was there on 
the envelope any mark or clew to the writer. The note 
was in a man’s hand, unmistakably. 

Jake had been arrested in Coshocton a few da3's 
after the murder, while making towards the lower part 
of the State. He had been followed from the vicinity 
of the tragedy, near the scene of which he was observed 
on the morning of the discovery of the body. It was 
said that many things — some mysterious papers — were 
found on him, going to show that the deceased was 
Oliver Olne^^, a former resident of Geauga county, an 
early convert to Mormonism, and a supposed adherent 
of Rigdon’s, and who, it was said, had fled from Nauvoo 
recently. It was rumored that Jake and one other had 
followed Olney from Nauvoo, and, as was believed, 
had come up with, waylaid and murdered him. The 
case was said to be verj" clear against Jake ; and popular 
feeling, even among the cool, law-loving citizens of 
Northern Ohio, was intense against him. The bad 
reputation of Jake about Mantua soon reached the 
venue of his alleged crime, and tended much to 
deepen the feeling to his prejudice. 

Jake had been absent from Northern Ohio for some 
years, and was supposed to be with the Mormons, 
among whom, as was thought, his father and aunt still 
resided. 


A MESSAGE TO FEED. 


227 


At his jirrest he began by a denial, and then main- 
tained a sullen, dogged silence ; proofs of course^ of his 
guilt. The popular rule bears hard on a silspected 
man. If he talks, it is to deny and mislead. If he is 
silent, it is of course because he cannot deny his guilt. 

Jake, a sturd}’, sullen villain, whom the officers could 
hardly protect from violence, was heavily ironed, and 
lodged in the strongest cell of the new prison. Hun- 
dreds had been to gaze through the grated windows, and 
wonder and jeer, mock and taunt him ; none to speak 
kindly, or express the slightest sympathy in his fate, or 
pity for his condition. He was the obtuse, hardened, 
blood-stained murderer, whom it was useless to tiy, save 
as a compliance with the useless forms of law, and to pit}" 
whom was a crime against justice and a sin against 
humanity. Whenever the jailer attended upon him it 
was always under the protection of an armed guard, 
and the outside world was daily startled and horrilied 
with some new tale of the poor wretch's guilt, — this 
being the thirteenth or fourteenth murder he had com- 
mitted. 

On the afternoon of the fifth day of his confinement, 
when the western sun lit up his cell from the one 
small barred window, his prison-door was opened, and 
a tall, commanding, open browed, kindly-eyed young 
man stepped lightly in, and the door was locked on 
him. So bright and gentle and kindly beamed his 
face, that Jake did not recognize him, till the voice, — 
“Jake, old fellow, how are you?" and Fred frankly 
held out his hand. Jake took it mechanically in his 
hard and manacled hand, and looked wonderingly and 
abashed into the face, the lines and features of which 


TIIK PORTRAIT. 


‘22« 


came slowly back. “ Fred, Fred, is this yer ? Do yer 
come ter dam me ? 

“ I come to help you ; of course I do. We are old 
acquaintances, and relations for aught I know ; at any 
rate we are both human, and one of us wants help.” 

“ Fred,” said the touched Jake, “ I killed yer dog 
when — ” 

“ Never mind that now. Poor Walter would 
have died long ago. I am a man now, Jake, I am a 
lawyer ; have been a good deal in the courts, have 
earned a little mone}^, and I came on purpose to defend 
you, and get you out of this.” 

“ Do yer mean it, — raly, Fred ? ” breaking down. 

“ Indeed I do. I came for no other purpose under 
the heavens.” 

They sat down for a long and earnest conference ; 
Jake was broken and incoherent, and Fred held him 
and questioned as the nisi prius lawyer of all mortals 
only knows how to do ; Fred had seen four years of 
considerable practice, was accustomed to go to his books 
instead of begging broken morsels of law of his elders 
in the streets, and had early learned to depend on 
himself. It is a marvel, the rapidity and clearness 
with which a strong legally-trained mind grasps, 
arranges and analyzes facts, and leaps to conclusions, 
while an unaccustomed mind, however strong and intel- 
ligent, is struggling with an undigested mass of details 
complex in their nature, and confused from want 
of method. They have crystallized in his ; he steps 
from one governing point to another, and is at home, 
while the other still struggles with the tangled skein 


A MtlSSAGiS TO FRfib. 220 

Fred made a few notes of names and dates, and at the 
end of an hour arose to go. 

“ Have you any money, Jake? ” 

“ No— but I — ” 

“ Take that, for the present,” giving him a ten- 
dollar note. 

At his call, the jailer came. 

Why is this man in irons?” demanded Fred, with 
grave indignation. 

“ Why, to keep him safe, I s’pose.” 

“Safe, eh! Has he attempted to escape? Did he 
resist? ” 

“ Not’s I know on.” 

“ Call the sheriff, if 3^ou please.” "The sheriff came. 

“I am Fred Warden, a law^^er, and counsel for this 
man. May I know by whose order he is fettered and 
manacled here in this cell ? ” The tone was very quiet, 
but Fred was ver}' earnest, and men were very much 
in the way of heeding him in that mood. 

“Well, jrou see, Mr. Warden, that there is a gn;at 
deal of excitement against him, and — ” 

“You chained him to keep the ignorant devils from 
hurting him, I suppose?” 

“Well, not quite that.” 

“What then? Your prison is new and strong. 
He is not condemned, — is presumed to be innocent, 
whatever excitement there may be against him. Do 
you know of any provision of the Ohio Statutes that 
warrants this ? ” 

“ Not as I know of.” 

“ Will you remove those chains ? ” 

“ Certainly, if you wish it.” 


230 


iHfc 


“ Most certainly t do ; ” and the jailer was called, 
and poor Jake’s limbs were liberated. 

As he went out, the sheriff was very much impressed 
with the idea that J ake would be defended ; and there 
was something in Fred’s way and manner, something 
of force and strength, of undeveloped power, that 
would make light work of ordinaiy difficulties. 

From the jail Fred went to the office of a 3’^oung 
law3’cr of the name of Wilson, with whom he had 
a long conversation, and the next morning the3’' both, 
on horseback, proceeded to the scene of the murder, 
where the3" were met by a surve3^or witli his chain and 
an assistant. The young man who made the discoveiy, 
and others who saw the place before it was disturbed 
and tramped over, were summoned, and the most careful 
examination of every possible thing, and all the sur- 
roundings for a considerable distance, was made ; dis- 
tances were accurately measured, and a plat of the 
whole ground was prepared with great care. 

The various witnesses were of course ver3^ willing to 
talk, and under Fred’s questioning, were surprised at 
the numberless wholly unimportant things he called 
out and noted, and committed them to, so that it 
would be hard to var3^ from their statements, made in 
the presence of so many. What under the sun he 
wanted of it all was a puzzle to them ; “ and all the 
time he looked so pleasant and quizzical, and as if he 
did not care a cuss,” as one of them said, in his ac- 
count of the matter. 

The proceedings concluded with a disinterment of 
the remains, and a most careful and scientific exam- 
ination of them, conducted by Dr. Ackly, of Cleveland, 


A MESSAGE TO FRED. 


231 


in the presence of a distinguished practitioner from 
Warren, and one from Ravenna. This act was thought to 
be little short of an outrage upon public decency and 
propriety ; and folks said that if there was no law to 
prevent such shameful carryings on, it was time thei (‘ 
was. What earthlj’’ use was there in digging up a 
dead man, as if he could be made to tell anything on 
their side of the case? Of course, that was all the 
doings of the doctors ; they would make an^'thing an 
excuse to dig up and cut into a body; and it was 
popularly" believed that Dr. Ackl}^ actually carried off 
the head of the murdered man to Cleveland, and 
pickled it in spirits, and that each of the others took 
some choice bit. At last Fred finished his survey and 
preparation. Before he left, he had an interview with 
the prosecuting ofiicer for the county, who said that he 
should push the case to a trial early in June. When 
Fred suggested the diflSculty of getting ever3i;hing 
read}^, he replied that it was an atrocious murder, and 
public opinion demanded a speedy trial and execu- 
tion. Fred ventured to sa}', that in the present condi- 
tion of public opinion a fair trial was hardlj^ possible, 
imd was assured that there could be no possible doubt 
of Jake’s guilt, and that it was his own fault that pub- 
lic opinion was against him. Fred left him, with an 
intimation that the rules governing the continuances of 
cases of this importance were inflexible, and that a 
man would exhibit little invention if he permitted such 
a case to be tried until he was entirely read}'. 

Whatever may have been Fred’s purpose in seeking 
this interview, he left in the bosom of the prosecuting 
attorney of Mahoning County, a healthy determination 


232 


THE PORTRAIT. 


to try the case at all hazards, at as early a day as pos- 
sible. He rightly judged that the cool, quiet, and 
unassuming 3"oung man who acted for the prisoner 
might, with time and delay, get up an embarrassing 
defence, plain and undoubted as the case was. 

The scene of the exciting labors of these few daj’s was 
not man3" miles distant from Newton Falls, and many 
times there came a passionate longing into the young 
man^s heart to invent some excuse for going, or to go 
without aii}^, into the neighborhood, only to look upon 
the house, haunted and made paradise by the presence 
of Belle. Reluctantly, and with sadness, he turned 
him homeward without this seemingl^^ poor luxury. 
He had not heard a word of or from her since he left 
Mantua, four months before. He knew he could re- 
ceive nothing from her in reply to his letter. He 
knew he ought not to have sent her that, but he 
couldn’t help it. It went tearing and crashing out of 
him, — would go. He could not recall what it was, 
and did not feel much contrition for it. He felt that 
she was true and noble, notwithstanding her quiet, 
dreamy, nun-like life. When men fled in mortal 
fright, did she not dash into a wintry torrent to aid 
him in saving the drowning maiden? Not on his 
account, of course, but no common woman would have 
done anything but stand and shriek, if she had not 
fainted. Surel}^, would she not be willing that he 
should love her? Would she not come to see, in time, 
that no harm, no hurt to her purity, could come to 
her from his distant and sacred worship? Would he 
not struggle to make his soul not unworthy of hers, 
and might she not some time come to know and admit 


A MESSAGE TO ITIED. 


233 


that? Would she be at Martha’s wedding? He doubted 
it. He should go, and would at the least hear some- 
thing of her. If she was there, what eould he say to 
her ? He now regretted that awful letter ; it would 
keep her away, for fear of meeting him. So he mused 
over it all, and rode home, as he worked now, in the 
daily light of his great love. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 


AN OLD TIME WEDDING. 

I N the far-off old time of which I write, ere the beau- 
tiful slopes, and hills, and valleys were denuded 
of the wonderful forests that once furnished homes, 
haunts, and hunts for Indian and beast ; when the 
openings and clearings, protected and fenced in from 
winds, and traversed by innumerous small streams, 
which, in the absence of great evaporation, found 
head in every swale or cat-swamp, and a course or 
channel in every little vale, the tone of the climate 
was softer, the winters more moderate, and there was 
still an actual spring, out of the almanac and pastoral 
poetry, all over beautiful Northern Ohio. 

The Carman farm, behind its protecting mass of 
timbered land which fenced it on the north with its 
southern inclination, and its rich warm soil, was alwa3’s 
the first to feel the kindling glow of spring ; and now, 
on May-day, was radiant and fragrant with light and 
blossoms. In the woods the shad-bush and dog-wood 
made little ga^" clouds of white, under which blos- 
somed the blood-root, squaw-blow, adders-tongue, la- 
dies’ slipper, and myriads of the ga}" and unnamed 
children of April ; tjje gi’and old pear-tree arose in front 
( 234 ) 


AN OLD TIME WEDDING. 


235 


of %c house, a marvellous fragrant white p3Tamid, — 
one mass of blossom ; the cherries, peaches, and plums 
were failing, but the great orchards were one wil- 
derness of red and white, while the whole air, faint 
and weighted with perfume, was traversed everywhere* 
with little streamlet-like hums of loaded brown 
bees. 

It was a great day at the old red farm-house. All 
along in front of it, tied to fence or tree, were man}" 
horses and carriages ; and men and boj^s, matrons and 
maidens, thronged on the grass in the 3"ards, under the 
piazzas, and in. all the rooms that were open, all in 
gala dress, and with bright faces. 

It was Martha^s wedding-day. All the family rel- 
atives were there : all the Carmans of Mantua, of 
AVarren and Aurora; the Sheldons, the Higle^’S, from 
AVindham, man}" prominent persons of Mantua, and 
all the neighbors. 

Uncle Seth, in his best plum-colored home-made, 
with his calf-skin boots newly greased, with his serene, 
fine face — that always had a touch of sadness for a wed- 
ding, and a ray of light for a funeral — was about busy 
with his guests, while Aunt Mary, in her rich old 
satins, w ith the color bright on her cheek, and the life 
quick in her eye, whose housewifely instinct had be- 
came an outstinct as well, managed and controlled 
everything as was her wont. 

A little buzz — a lull of voices — and then a crowd- 
ing into doors and up to open window’s. The word 
had been given ; the sitting-room so often referred to, 
in which w^ere the nearest friends, was opened; and 
from the inner Aunt Mary’s best room — 


236 


TIIK rOlMKAIT. 


too sacred to be mentioned — came the bride, and her 
inanl}", handsome bridegroom, and took the places desig- 
nated. Near them, witli a face thinner and a gather- 
ing moisture in his eyes, stood Fred, and with him — 
her liand in Ids and her e^'es on his face — stood the 
little Ilcbe whom he had plucked from the Cu3^ahoga. 
llelle was absent. 

Father Henry was there, and, in a few simple and 
im[)ressivc words, performed the sanctifying ceremon3' 
that made them one, amid the S 3 ’mpathizing tears of 
the women, and the grave, grim silence of men. 

If there is one thing in the world more incompre- 
hensible than others to the average masculine mind, 
it is the feeling with which a woman alwa3's witnesses 
the marriage cercmon3\ Of all sublunaiy or celestial 
things, the farthest from the mind or heart of the 
bridegroom are the ineffable thoughts and emotions 
of the trembling one whose hand he holds, when she 
litcralfy gives herself to him. The abandon^ the devo- 
tion, the unreserve of that act, he does not understand, 
and the words that would express it would conve3' 
little meaning to him. To him, a little pause in a *va3’- 
faring career — a bending for her hand — a slight 
sidelong deviation that he may receive her, — onfy that, 
and nothing more. To her, a perfect moral, plysical, 
and mental revolution, — a coming out from her maiden 
life of dream and hope, of color and fragrance, to the 
world which she does not know ; coming out from the 
beautiful mysteries of her inner self, of which she 
knows as little, and placed at once in contact with the 
strong, coarse, and often Milgar and base fibre of manV, 
compelling nature, that cannot understand, and would 


AN OLD TIME WEDDING. 


2 ;; 7 

not regsrd, if it did, the subtle and delicate fibre of 
heis. No wonder that matrons, always from expe- 
rience, and maidens from pi’esentiment, weep at her 
sacrifice. Man extends one hand, with one side of his 
heart to her, while she abandons her whole self to 
him. 

The ceremon3'^ was short, simple, and impressive ; and 
Martha, sweet and arch, and blushing, was given over 
to the congratulations of her friends, while Fred did 
what he could to sustain the bridegroom under the 
untowardness which is so tiying to a man on finding 
himself in a position subordinate to a woman. I trust 
this will finally be found to be but “ inherited expe- 
rience,” and not nature. 

Great baskets of rich cake were passed about the 
crowd, to be devoured by the men and preserved and 
carried home bj' the women. 

Wine, cider, and other liquids were not wanting, and 
an hour was given to the hearty, not rude or vulgar, 
festivity of an old time country’ wedding, from wliich 
the guests departed with the day ; and the bride and 
her groom were remitted to the seclusion of her room, 
in the sanctuary of her father’s house. 

Fred had not expected that Belle would be there, 
but yet more bitterlj^ was he disappointed at her ab- 
sence than can be told. Martha had hardl}' heard 
from her since she left. She had never, till reccntl}', 
been acquainted with her, and she had acted very 
strangely', as she thought. She had written to Martha, 
soon after her return home, that matters of the gravest 
importance had arisen that demanded her immediate 


238 


THE rOKTRAIT. 


personal attention, and that she should go Souths and 
possibl}’’ went at once, as Martha supposed she was 
now absent. She did not tell Fred that, in her letter, 
Belle had not named or made the slightest reference to 
him, which she thought veiy strange. Indeed, she felt 
disappointed in this Belle. 

Upon the dispersion of the guests, Fred, under the 
melancholy that oppressed him, rode over the lonely 
road, through the woods, to the Rapids. Night was in 
the forests with its shadow, but musical with the plaint 
of the whippoorwill. How wonderfully sweet and melan- 
choly to the ear of the pensive young man came the many 
voices of the shrunken river, no longer plunging madly 
over the rocks, but murmui’ing and gurgling musically 
in the channels between and around them. He rode 
across the river, and stood under the shadow of the 
unbroken wood on the east side. 

With what force it all came back to him, — the 
bright sun and sparkling ice — the cry, the race, the 
disappearing red — -the plunge into the mad, boiling 
waters — the grasp, and desperate struggle — the al- 
most failure at last — and then the marvellous rescue 
of Belle’s eyes first, and then her hands. He rode 
back, and slowly home through the darkened woods, and 
as he went he thought it all over : her repulse of his 
attempted apology ; her avoiding him on the morning 
ride to the river, with every detail, upon which his now 
morbid fancy threw a strong adverse color. The rude, 
violent, and unmanly letter of his may have been 
coarse and vulgar to her ear and sense. She may 
have burned it without reading. But, in any event, it 


Ai ; OLD TtME WfeDDtKG. 


230 


was a crime against her delicacy and self-respect. It 
had kept her from Martha’s wedding, and would for- 
ever bar him from her presence. Could he apologize 
for this? Would it not aggravate his offending? After 
all, was he not entitled to some consideration as a 
human being? Was it not a part of his life and 
fortune, the recoil of the invisible, always-felt chain 
that so darkl}" bound him, — always most tense and 
galling when its absence alone could produce peace or 
render life endurable ? He would address her one more 
letter : 


“At the Carmans, May 1, 1845. — Evening. 

“Mrs. Belle Williams; 

Madam, — You were not here to-day, and the fear 
of my presence compelled 3 'our absence. I am hateful 
to myself. Inadvertently I was the cause of a deep 
wound to ^’our delicac}’. I was foolish enough to at- 
tempt an apolog 3 \ Invention could find no words in 
w^hich to frame it, and you turned your face from me 
in horror, and rebuked me with 3 "our hand. 

“In my madness and folly, I dashed the fury and 
passion of my love for you upon paper, and sent it 
to you. 

“ It is a love that does you no dishonor. Your hus- 
band in heaven would not reproach me for it. It 
would give me infinite peace to know that 1 liad not 
offended be 3 ’ond pardon, by some word or token — a 
bit of soiled paper, a withered leaf — the most worth- 
less trifle the world holds, — anything from you. If 
I may not receive such, I shall know I am to remain a 
«itranger. If I do, I shall count upon onl 3 ' a distant, 


240 


THE POUTHArr. 


casual acquaintanceship, which is never to pass tlio 
line of cold recognition, at accidental meetings. Is 
this too much for me to ask? 

“ liver, with profoundest respect, 

“ Your obedient servant, 

“ Fred.” 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 


A TRIBUNE OF THE PEOPLE. AN OLD-TIME GATHERINQ. 

singularly remote events sometimes influence 
J — L the fortunes of ordinaiy persons ! 

In the autumn before, the “ Creole ” cleared at Nor- 
foUi for New Orleans, with a cargo of one hundred and 
thirty-six freshly-imported Africans, — slaves, as we 
called such folk then. When at sea, under the in- 
spiration of winds and waves, they mutinied — these 
deluded Africans — without the least reverence for the 
Constitution, the greatest work of man, and with slight 
regard for the freest and best government God ever 
inspired man to make, — the heathen. They overcame 
the captain and crew, and then, under threat of death, 
ordered them to steer for the coast of Africa. They 
were taken to Nassau, and delivered to the British 
authorities. Mr. Webster — the god-like in this at 
least, — his action was inscrutable — then Secretary of 
State, demanded that they be returned into slavery, 
Onessimus-like. Great excitement followed ; and early 
in the present March, Mr. Giddings introduced a series 
of resolutions into the House of Representatives, de- 
claring that at open sea, outside of the reach of State 
laws, these wretches were free, and might assert their 
16 ( 241 ) 


242 




right to freedom by rising upon their jailers, as tliej* 
had done. For the utterance of this heretical formula, 
Mr. Giddings, on motion of Mr. Botts, of Virginia, was, 
by a vote of the House, condemned, and formally cen- 
sured b}'’ a majority sufficient to have expelled him. 
He at once resigned, returned home, demanded from 
the Governor of Ohio an order for a new election, and 
went boldly to the people. The Whig leaders, at that 
time, even those of anti-slavery tendencies, condemned 
his course as impolitic. His sentiments were sound in 
the abstract, but it was inexpedient to put them forth 
at that time. Alas for abstract truth ! the time for its 
utterance never comes. Most of those who voted to 
sustain him did so reluctantly, were glad of the cen- 
sure, and thought his true course was penitentl}’^ to 
submit. At home, the leaders stood away from him. 
The Democrats did not think it expedient to put a 
candidate in the field, and the leading Whigs, standing 
coldly aloof, permitted him to go over the course with 
such chilling cheer as they managed to give him. 

The day of election was early, the time short, and 
Mr. Giddings was left to make such a canvass as he 
could. He came back quivering under the insult he 
had received, and indignant at the cowardly coolness 
of the party leaders, and went upon the stump, first set 
up on the Reserve in the campaign of 1840. 

Fred, who was nominally, at least, a Democrat, had 
made some reputation as a young speaker in 1840, to 
which he had added in the Clay-Polk canvass of ’44, 
and b}" many was thought to give much promise as an 
orator, was attending court at Chardon when Giddings 
spoke there, became much interested, and, at Mr. Gid- 


A TRIBUNE OF THE PEOPLE. 


243 


dings’s earnest request, attended some of the called 
meetings with him. 

Among the personal and political friends of Mr. 
Giddings was a prominent man of Turnbull County, 
not a politician, but of great wealth and personal influ- 
ence. He was at much pains and expense to get up a 
gathering of the people for Mr. Giddings, which came 
olf a few miles from Warren, about three weeks after 
Martha’s wedding. A spacious out-door stand was 
erected, a band secured, immense posters placarded 
the adjacent portions of Geauga and Portage, flags 
and mottoes were extemporized, and with the day 
came the people also. The}- all came, — came with 
their wives and children, in their wagons and carts, 
carriages, buggies and carryalls. They formed pro- 
cessions on all the roads of approach, and, with old 
Harrison flags and banners, the log cabins and canoes 
of 1840, and the flags and banners of the last cam- 
paign floating and flying, with martial music, fifes, 
drums, and bugles, they came. 

The meeting was in mid-da}' ; for all these people 
were to return in time for many duties at evening. 

Mr. Giddings arose amid breathless silence, and, 
under the tension of his feelings and convictions, he 
was never so thorough a master of his best powers as 
.now ; never in his long career was he so eflective as 
during this short canvass. The hesitation of speech, 
and lack of language, which sometimes marked and 
marred his speeches were absent, and a steady flow of • 
strong, nervous language carried out and delivered his 
meaning as he would. Simply, clearl}’^, and grandly, 
he opened out the whole matter ; and then giving him- 


244 


THE PORTRAIT. 


self up in his heightened warmth, he closed out a tivo- 
and-a-half hours’ speech, almost sublimely. 

Repeated cheers greeted and helped him on. He 
was one to be so helped ; and when he sat down, three 
times three, as in the old Tippecanoe campaign, evi- 
denced the fervor of this usually cool, calculating, and 
phlegmatic people ; then the band played a stirring air . 
when the young Democrat was announced, and Fred, 
from the rear of the stand, went forward to the front, 
standing upon its edge by the end of a table. He 
paused for a moment, silent, and the curious crowd 
bent eagerly forward to get sight of him. There he 
stood, in the simple beauty and grace of young and 
almost perfect manhood. The crowd expressed its 
satisfaction with rapturous cries of applause. 

He began, falteringly and hesitatingly, the little sim- 
ple formula which his experience had taught him to 
have ready until he was sure of himself. In a moment 
he did not hear his own voice, — for just then the crowd 
parted at his right, and a carriage was permitted to 
occupy the space ; in it, on the front seat, and so . near 
him that he could have tossed a bouquet into her lap, 
sat the peerless Belle. Not a lisp or whisper had she 
responded to his plaint. He was despised and scorned, 
and there she was, with her ^ce at that moment color- 
less, but with her great wondrous e^^es full of the light 
that came to him over the mad waters. In some way 
in his mind he at once identified himself, — contemned, 
walled around all his life, and now scorned, with the 
insulted representation, the contemned constituency, 
and the abused freedom of speech. He was indignant, 
excited and exalted, — and he was one who would bear 


A TRIBUNE OF THE PEOPLE. 


245 


any amount of inspiration. For a moment he did not 
hear his voice ; and the next, it sounded to him like the 
voice of one near him, ringing out clear, silvery and 
sonorous, like a trumpet-call. How his few formulated 
sentences glowed and flashed ! and how, almost jo3"ously 
in the pride of his 3’oung, and never before so fully real- 
ized strength, did he leap from the last round, and open 
out his pinion for sustained flight ! How real every- 
thing was to him, and how palpable ! How he ignited 
everything he touched, and shed a glow on all he 
passed ! Men crowded close to him, and gave him the 
full might of their lifting, inspiring power, and bore him 
onward. 

He clutched the theme, — the outrage upon the free- 
dom of speech, and debate, and thought, and held it 
up in bold and striking lights. “ And it was done by 
slavery, which had dethroned God, razed out the Deca- 
logue, and smeared the page with its own Gospel. It 
fashioned legislation, moulded judgment, poisoned the 
sources of thought, till at its command the minds of 
men warped and tortured the promise of salvation, to 
the threat of damnation. It laid its hand on our 
mouths and commanded us to be dumb. It placed its 
fingers on our pulses and commanded them to stand 
still. It turned the red-tide back upon the heart, which, 
in its grasp, it commanded to grow cold and cease to 
beat. But that heart shall store its accumulating. en- 
ergies, until, with one indignant throb, it hurls this 
silenced tribune of the people back upon the floor of 
Congress, where, throb by throb, it shall sustain him, 
and a shivering cr}^, a glad shout, shall hail this tri- 
umph of freedom. The capitol shall hear it. 1 he 


246 


THE PORTRAIT. 


waters of the 3^ellow Potomac shall catch it up, and, in 
their downward sweep to the sea, they shall whisper to 
the Great Sleeper on their banks, that the city which 
bears his name is again worthy of it.” 

The rising of the slaves on the crew of the “ Creole ” 
at sea, furnished a splendid theme for his masterly 
powers of graphic description. 

At first, repeated bursts of applause interrupted him, 
but it was soon discovered that these annoyed him, 
and he was permitted to go on ; soon the interest be- 
came so intense, that nobody thought of applause. 
When his voice finally ceased, men bent forward to 
listen, as if it must go on, and then they looked into 
each other’s faces, and again to the stand which the}^ 
saw was empty ; then they ki^ew that the spell which 
held them was broken. They murmured, and then 
shouted, shout after shout, as if the pent and ravished 
feelings could find relief onl}^ in shoutings. 

And Belle, through the whole fiashing hour, with her 
eyes never wandering from the j^oung orator, and her 
color coming back, and the light of her eyes deepening, 
and leaning forward in unconscious grace in her eager- 
ness, helped to carry him on ; and when he sank back 
from the front, at the close, her glorified face went down, 
and was veiled from sight. 

As he stepped back, Mr. Giddings caught him in his 
arms in an eager, grateful congratulation. The band 
recovered, and struck up, and the enchanted people 
lingered to catch a glimpse of, and perhaps shake the 
hand of, the young orator, who had surpassed their con- 
ceptions of fervid and sustained eloquence. 

Then it was remembered that he was to defend Jake, 


A TRIBUNE OF TUE PEOPLE. 247 

and there was some vague sort of an idea that' he 
would acquit him, and it was hoped he would, — and the 
poor devil might be innocent after all. What a funny 
thing is the people ! 


CHAPTER XL. 


THE GLORY FADES, 



OW gloriously possible even heaven seemed to 


J — L Fred,- for the last part of that hour. It is 
curious how the mind and faculties of a man aroused 
will act and play when at their best. While his main 
forces were concentrated intensely upon his speech, 
a score of little imps of fancy were in pla}^, as they 
always are, all about and over the field, — flashing 
ahead, and glancing at the ground ; backward, along 
the track, and anon away upon things having little to 
do with the immediate labor. And all about sweet and 
glorious Belle. There was some mistake. He should 
go to her, and take her in his' arms as his, and with 
her sweet consent. Didn’t she look all this? even that 
she would come to him, — almost ! Dear, deluding 
imps ! and as he sat down, and then got down on the 
ground, he knew he was on the earth again. He felt 
that his speech was a triumph ; but what did he care ? 
Ilis cheating fancies, with their rainbow glories, faded 
and died in a moment, and he was the poor contemned 
wretch that arose an hour ago. 

It is one of man’s delusions that a woman alwaj^s 
loves or hates, adheres to’ or opposes a cause, as it is 
represented by some man whom she loves or hates, 


( 248 ) 


THE GLORY FADES. 


249 


worships or despises. It is one of the oldest and most 
firmly fixed, as it is the most fallacious articles of the 
man creed, that a woman can never comprehend and 
accede to, or deny a proposition, or appreciate a cause 
in the abstract. But it was an error that Fred did not 
fall into in reference to Belle. It was, of course, 
her intense anxiety for the safety of the drowning girl 
that led her into the icy river ; as it was her noble and 
instinctive womanly sympathies for the cause of free- 
dom and justice, that made her lean from her carriage 
and cheer him so with the inspiration of her eyes and 
manner. What did she, what could she, care for him ? 
He almost despised himself, that he could languish for 
other reward than the consciousness of doing his duty. 
Duty! what a word was that to a despairing lover; 
what were any words? All this ran through his mind, 
as, surrounded by a crowd of admiring young men, he 
was walking from the stand to the house of their enter- 
tainer near by, — catching their words and answering 
back mechanically. 

As they entered the house, the host came forward, 
and taking him by the arm, led him into a parlor, and 
introduced him to several : among others, to Mr. Morris, 
Mrs. Marbury, and Miss Belle Morris, as she was called. 
This ceremony called up and aroused his pride to 
almost hauteur. Mr. Morris started to come forward 
as if to meet him, but evidently Fred’s manner of 
dignified coldness repelled him. Fred made the pro- 
foundest of bows to the ladies, and, spite of his arctic 
manner, Maud, almost as beautiful in her way as her 
younger sister, managed to receive his hand. She 
even ventured to congratulate him on his speech, but 


250 


THE PORTRAIT. 


his host brought others to his relief, and he made his 
way to other parts of the room. 

Soon after, a dinner, more nearly a supper in the 
country, was announced, and upon reaching the spacious 
dining-room, Fred, to his dismay, was conducted to a 
seat near Mr. Giddings, and between Maud and Belle. 
No woman can comprehend or sympathize with all the 
feelings of Fred in this position. She cannot compre- 
hend why every man is not a gentleman, and why he 
should not, under all circumstances, be at his ease with 
ladies. She knows that he will alwa3^s receive proper 
consideration, and wh}^ her presence can ever embar- 
rass him, she is unable to understand. But a man of 
quick and nice sensibilities will full}^ appreciate his 
position. Here was the one woman of all the world, who 
was the all to him, who shared the common preju- 
dice against him, to whom he had declared his love, 
and of whom had abjectl}" begged as a boon the bare 
favor of a cold recognition of his existence, and it had 
been refused. Here now was he, the scorned lover, 
as a special mark of distinction, placed by her side. 
With a few commonplace words he took his seat, and 
under the pressure of a crowded table, as near as the 
seats would permit. So abject had he become in his 
own esteem, that, spite of himself, he was conscious of 
the charm of her presence, which he seemed to inhale 
as a subtle and entrancing aroma ; all the time, 
too, he was conscious that he was closely- observed by 
Maud, who with womanl}^ tact was making such diversion 
as she might in his favor. Had he exercised the least 
perception, which, as we see, he never did where Belle 
was concerned, he would in a moment have discovered, by 


THE GLORY FADES. 


251 


Belle’s look and manner, that the position was quite as 
embarrassing to her. Indeed, her faee indicated not 
embarrassment, but anxiety, if not pain. The glow 
had gone out of it, and the wondrous light of her 
eyes had died in them ; her air was not so much that 
of coldness, as of passiv e resignation. But Fred was in 
no mood to perceive or know anything. Humiliated 
and abased, he was thoroughly wretched, as must have 
been shown by his countenance and the tone of his 
voice. Men were staring at him, and calling to and 
at him, and he was, in a dim, confused, miserable way, 
trying to be interested in the complimentary remarks 
which he did not hear, and to^dng with food which 
he could not eat. Belle made no effort to talk. Once 
or twice her hand was raised to a bunch of beautiful 
half-blown moss rose-buds, fastened over the unimagin- 
able loveliness of her bosom, and once she answered 
her fatlier, who sat next her. 

They had been a few moments at the table, when 
word was brought Fred that a gentleman outside 
much wanted to see him for a moment ; and although 
many protested, yet, with a word to the host, Fred 
arose and went out ; a few minutes, and a note was 
sent from him to Mr. Giddings, who looked at it in 
surprise, and then read it out : 

“ My dear Mr. Giddings : — I am suddenly called 
to Caiffield, and go at once. I will try to join you at 
Warren to-morrow. Make my excuse to the host. 

“ Fred.” 


The call was a relief to Fred ; he took his place with 


252 


THE PORTRAIT. 


alacrity in the carriage, glad to fly even from Belle, 
and drove away in as wretched a frame of mind as he 
had ever known. 

Had he returned to the table, he would have found 
that bunch of beautiful rose-buds on his plate. It never 
resumed its place, and probably not more than one knew 
its final fate. 


CHAPTER XLL 


BELLE. 

XT is a suflSciently difficult task to sketch with graphic 
-L accuracy the character of a man whose traits are 
pronounced, whose characteristics are marked, and the 
springs and workings of whose mind are often obvious, 
— of a man who is permitted to speak and act directly 
as a primary and controlling force, and manifests him- 
self more or less openly. 

Who shall confidently attempt the character of 
woman, the lines of which are often so delicately traced 
as to be invisible to the eye of a man, and which naay 
nevertheless control? Who shall estimate her emo- 
tional natui’e, and the balancing or controlling power 
of her affections ? Who can tell where the springs of 
thought or sources of impulse lie, and how or why or 
when either may act, and how either will influence the 
other, or what shall determine or control their action ? 
and what the result of both acting together. Accus- 
tomed to act through others, and effect by indirect 
means, becoming used to not having her way, until 
the way itself is not obvious ; denied all play of ambi- 
tion, until its possession is deemed unwomanly; per- 
mitted only to persuade, until it is a crime to argue, 
and treason to command ; taught that her only strength 
( 253 ) 


254 


THE PORTRAIT. 


is in absolute weakness, her greatest power in abject 
submission, that her true independence is helpless sub- 
jection, and her sole possession is to be the absolute 
property of another, her real empire servitude, and her 
crowning achievement constant self-sacrifice ; that she is 
aggregated negatives, — is not to do, is not to have, is 
not to be, is not to go, is not to see, is not to hear, to 
speak, or think, or know, and that her highest acquire- 
ment is to become nobody and accomplish nothing, and 
that in this she can alone occupy and fill her sphere. 
When the delicacy of her organization is remembered, it 
is apparent that her character may present difficulties 
that the ordinary artist, if he apprehend them, might 
hesitate to attempt. I might protest against these con- 
ditions which in all of the ages of man have changed 
the nature of woman to un-nature, but it would in no 
way help me to sketch the beautiful Belle. 

It has been already mentioned, that Belle, reared in the 
atmosphere of the highest culture and refinement, from 
the singular currents of her existence, and the tenden- 
cies of the lighter elements of her nature, had floated 
dreamily in the sheltered and colorless streams of a half- 
nun life, touched and tinged alone with the ecstacies 
of a devotee, and only disturbed at times b}’’ the vague 
stir of the elements of a strong rich nature, lying 
so deep that their very existence was unsuspected. Her 
mystical, shadowy association with an imaginative youth, 
with whom real marriage was impossible, whose clear- 
est perceptions took the form of misty visions, whose 
highest exaltations were feeble ecstacies, whose powers 
were too weak for fanaticism, and whose only hope 
and aspiration was languishing for the company of the 


BELLE. 


255 


angels. That the accepted and constantly acted upon 
idea on her part that their union remained in full, binding, 
present force, and that their actual association was but 
temporarily suspended, had singularly isolated Belle 
even in the society of her equals, among whom she had 
freely mingled for the last four or five years. She 
could not fail of being very attractive to gentlemen, and 
frankly admitted the pleasure derived from their society. 
She was not now ascetic or prudish. She only and 
always conducted herself with the innate, unstudied, 
and exalted propriety of a devoted wife in the absence 
of her husband, and from this course she had in no 
instance departed. Gentlemen unexceptional, with 
the profoundest admiration, would have approached her 
as possible lovers, but had never been able to do so. 
Her father had playfully chided her for her devotion to 
a shadow, and sometimes had seriously combated her 
notions ; while Maud, after pursuing her through every 
shade of badinage, had closed the light campaign with 
the declaration — half a wish and half a prophecy — 
that she would some day fall in love ; — it would not 
come through liking, or by any of the channels of 
growth, but she would fall into it, and under the in- 
spiring logic of a lover new light would be thrown on 
this phantasm. To which the laughing Belle answered 
that she always avoided precipices, and even in her 
romping days never had a tendency to climb. Maud 
ran and pinched her cheek, and then kissed her with, 
“We shall see.’* But with the hopeful watchfulness 
of three or four years, she had not seen. 

Belle’s vision of the portrait stepping from its frame, 
is perhaps remembered. The impression so singularly 


256 


THE PORTRAIT. 


produced was very deep. It was not only deepened, 
but became bewildering ; when, instead of its proving 
a mere optical illusion, she found, when thrown into 
Fred’s immediate presence, that under the varying 
lights, change of attitude and play of expression, his 
resemblance in feature, from general effect to the 
minutest lines, seemed to her memory, and excited im- 
agination, perfect ; and then, like an electric shock, 
came the thought that here was the mysterious solution 
of an old mystery, a new link in the chain of events, 
which made up a story of tragic love, that had fixed 
itself in her memory as tenaciously as if the events of 
it had occurred under her eyes. As she looked, that 
thought grew to belief, and passed at once into the 
form of enduring conviction. 

Then her mind, quickened by this assurance, recalled 
the curious name which seemed familiar to Fred, as 
well as the other coincidences of which he thought he 
must have dreamed. She felt and knew that she was 
strongly drawn to him — almost irresistibly — and that 
she thought him the handsomest, — no, not that — she 
didn’t like the word — but something brave, strong, 
and noble — man she had ever seen. Then there was 
the mystery of his birth. If not this child, who was 
he ? It was this mystery, and her interest in the story 
which must be his, that attracted her to him, of course. 
But then he certainly had beautiful eyes, a deep, rich? 
manly voice, and the same silky black side-whiskers as 
the portrait, and the same wilful, finely-formed mouth ; 
— he must he the son. 

As to the mistake of that night — but so pure was 
she in heart and soul that her purity was not alarmed — 


BELLE. 


257 


she did not blame him ; of course he was asleep, was 
dreaming of her. How funny that was ! and she was 
careless ; but then he knew how it happened. She 
knew the adventure was sacred in his mind. It was a 
rude shock to her delicacy ; she could hardly think of 
it, and it must have shocked him as much. 

Would he mention it in the morning? Was she 
afraid he would ? Did she wish that he would — it was 
not necessary ; she thought he would not, — hut then men 
are queer sometimes ; she wondered how he would look 
by daylight. Of course she was not quite certain of 
his looks. Then he came in, and she saw by his look 
that he attached much gravity to the occurrence, and 
it shocked her ; she could not face him when he spoke. 
But his words, — that he dreamed of her, and that she 
was the only woman for whom he would gladly die ! 
How these thrilled ! That was not gallantry. The quick- 
ened blood came to her face, and when she turned 
around he had gone. He was somehow disturbed, 
and she could not quite say to him what she would. 
No matter ; that was got along with now. A seat 
was offered her that morning, and though she would 
much prefer to ride with Martha and Fred, yet, as there 
was but one seat in their sleigh, she took the one offered. 
Then came the accident and rescue. Belle thought of 
and saw only Fred. She was not frightened ; the world 
swam a little when he disappeared, but then she knew 
he would come out, and she could not help rushing in 
to help him. How glad she was that the poor little 
maiden was saved, and mainly because Fred saved her ! 
How like a river-god he looked, coming out of the 
water ! How glad she was when he praised her ! She 
17 


258 - THE PORTRAIT, 

did help bring the girl to, but Fred told her what to do. 
Then she recalled his conduct when Martha’s brother 
was sick. He was gone a good while with Martha that 
afternoon, and she was very glad when he came, and 
was a little afraid to meet him ; he took her hand in 
both his, and pressed his cheek and the side of his face 
to it, and left tears upon it ; what did it mean ? Did he 
love her? Was this love, a man’s love? a real, splendid, 
heroic man’s love, and for her, — Belle? What a 
heaven ! How she choked, and how her heart throbbed ; 
could it be love, and did she feel the same way to him ? 
Of course, when he turned away from her the tears 
dropped from her eyes ; but then she was a woman. 
She had never felt such a strange, sweet, exquisite 
thrill. How warm and clinging his hands were ! Was 
it love ? Surely, this was not all interest in him, because 
he must be the son of her friend Mrs. D’Arlon. But 
then, — it could not be ; people could not fall in love 
so suddenly as this. Besides, she was a married 
woman, and a woman with a husband could never fall 
in love, or — was it something — that people sometimes 
called love ? It was not that, she knew. Something 
of fear, shame, apprehension of guilt must come with 
that. Then she had watched Fred, been near him, 
heard his voice, seen the light in his eyes, and found 
somehow that she did not like to meet his gaze, and he 
was often turning to look at her, and that did not 
offend her. 

She thought of his birth, — what if she was mistaken, 
what if the general impression of him was true? It 
could not matter to her, it should not to anybody. If 
anything, he was entitled to the more credit for the 


BELLE. 


. 259 


position he had gained alone, and in spite of it. Of 
course he would be a great man, and would marry 
somebody. Would he? Not if — not if — of course 
he did not love her. He had no business to love her ; 
she was a married woman, and he knew it. But he did 
rfot know that seriously he must not love her as men 
sometimes loved women they wished to marry. Pshaw ! 
what a silly girl she was! What had come over her? 
She never had such thoughts before ; but then it was a 
whim — a fancy — and would pass. She found that 
she did not want to talk about him to Martha ; Martha 
would suspect something. So it ran on more and 
deeper ; and Fred left, and could not speak when he 
went. She wondered if he would write. Of course 
not to her ; but when his letter came, she was not 
much surprised, and not at all frightened. 

Somehow, the fierce and stormy way in which he told 
his love exhilarated, aroused, and almost intoxicated 
her, and for a moment seemed to carry her to the 
inner heavens — not the home of abstract, celestial,' 
angelic, of cold, colorless bliss — but a heaven like the 
earth transfigi^red and glorified, with a thousand suns 
and endless flowers, and warmth, and glad and joy- 
ous singing, happy things. This was love — passion- 
ate, intense, strong — but oh, exquisitely sweet and 
beautiful! Then came the memory of Edward; she 
who, as his wife, was so loved, and was glad and 
happy for it, — she, oh, horror ! felt no guilt and no 
shame, no trembling, no possible danger, but thrilling 
gladness. No, this could not be love, — it — it must be 
that alluring fascination which she had heard that some 
men could throw about some women, which disarmed 


260 


THE PORTRAIT. 


fear, and changed the poor wretched woman’s nature. 
What if this strong and fascinating man should insist 
on her loving him with what people would call a mar- 
riage? Then she turned and found exquisite consola- 
tion in the last two or three lines of his letter. He 
only wanted to worship as the young barbarian would 
worship his star ; and only wanted that the star should 
know. Was there ever anything so beautiful, yet 
exquisitely touching? How unhappy he was, and why 
might he not love her? And why might she not joy in 
knowing that he did? But — but — could a married 
woman innocently be the object of such worship ? — not 
of soul worship, soul love ? Why not ? She distrusted and 
doubted, as well she might. Did not this come wholly 
between her and the memory of Edward ; between her 
and him in heaven ; transforming heaven, in which 
he was, only to an unregretted memory, an uncher- 
ished dream ? True, her form would remain pure, but 
her heart and soul — oh, blessed heaven, and all its 
hopes and joys, were never so shadowy and vague, so 
poor and filmy — were not heart and soul lost already ? 
Had she erred in thought or dream? ^She could not 
feel that she had, and she felt that she ought to be 
sensible of guilt. Was there adultery of the spirit? 
Might they not commune with no thought of earth? 
She knelt and prayed with the deep, sweet, hopeful 
fervor and restful faith of the pure in heart, soul and 
thought. 


CHAPTER XLII. 


BELLE S THEORY, 



NDER the inspiration of her love, whatever she 


^ tnay have called it, her mind, naturally strong 
and quick, and now doubly so in everything that had 
reference to Fred, and the conceded mystery of his 
birth, was, as we see, suggestive and inventive. The 
thought, of course, occurred to communicate her belief 
and its reasons to him, as the one most interested, and 
whose energy, knowledge and sagacity would be strong 
allies in an enterprise of his own. But after all it 
might prove that she was mistaken, and then, how 
cruel to him, who had suffered so much ! She had only 
a portrait which she had not seen for years, a story, the 
names, places and dates of which she had only a vague 
idea of. Besides, deep in her woman’s heart was the 
wish, strong as life, and which might lead her to con- 
front death itself, to do this thing for him, — to restore 
him, crowned with his birthright, and let him owe her 
for it. Oh, what exquisite luxury ! And these thoughts 
and voices of her inmost heart — this struggle with her 
soul — must all be stilled ; perhaps she might be mis- 
taken even in her duty to the dead, and her estimate 
of her real relations. Oh, what a surprise to Fred it 


( 261 ) 


262 


THE PORTRAIT. 


would be ! and what would she not deserve at his 
hands ? 

Nor would she communicate to Fred’s mother, then in, 
or near, Boston. She would invent a pretext, and ask 
her to send her the requisite dates and names, places, 
and so forth, and she would at once enter personally 
upon the investigation. She was exhilarated at the 
thought of travelling, of going out and of attempting 
this adventure, and was amazed at the energy which 
the thought called up. 

She wrote to Mrs. D’Arlon, and arranged to return 
home. On her arrival there, she found the desired 
answer. In substance, Mrs. D’Arlon stated that her 
husband, in the month of September of 1821, with their 
infant son, then about two years and a half old, left 
Charleston to go into Virginia. He travelled in his 
own carriage, with two servants, and had with him a 
large sum of money ; that in the mountains of North 
Carolina, a few miles west of Linvill, in attempting to 
pass a swollen stream, his coachman was drowned, his 
baggage and money lost, and himself fatally hurt. His 
servant, with some assistance, rescued him and their 
son, and he was taken to a sort of tavern in that wild re- 
gion, kept by a man of the name of Jarvis Bibb, where 
he soon after died. The son, Ethfred, was placed with 
a poor man in the neighborhood named Sam Warren, 
a cousin or nephew of Bibb’s, but was taken sick soon 
after, and also died. The servant disappeared, and had 
never been heard of since. She, the writer, was absent 
in Cuba, prostrated with illness, and months elapsed 
before she, or any of her friends, had learned the fate 
of her husband. When she finally visited the region, 


belle’s theory. 


263 


to remove the remains of her dear ones, all these mat- 
ters were fully confirmed to her. She had understood 
from her husband, that a little time before his marriage 
he had travelled over this road, and Bibb told her that 
he spent a few days at his place, hunting in the wild 
region, some three years before the fatal accident. In 
the face of this statement. Belle, woman-like, believed 
that Ethfred and Fred were the same; that possibly 
the money was not lost, and that it might, furnish 
inducement to Bibb to change his name, and so forth. 
At any rate she would go to North Carolina, and if 
Bibb and Warren were there, she was mistaken, and 
would abandon the quest, unless, — well, she didn’t 
carry out the chain. Her father was still absent, and 
she at once went to Philadelphia, and took Maud and 
her husband into her confidence. 

“ Oh, Belle ! Belle ! Belle ! ” exclaimed Maud, “ what 
did I tell you ? This is the disguised young prince, is 
it, who comes to break the spell and liberate the prin- 
cess? What did I tell you?” 

“ Maud, you may shake your head, and look wise, 
and laugh as much as you please ; I am decidedly in 
earnest in this.” 

“ So I see ; and as decidedly in love with this hand- 
some young lawyer as any Miss of fifteen. How 
romantic ! How exquisite it is ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! ” 

At first, Marbury and Maud were little inclined to 
give heed to her hypothesis, but soon found that she 
was inflexibly determined to pursue the enterprise. At 
jMarbury’s suggestion, an experienced detective was 
called, who, under the inspiration of a large fee for a 
not unpleasant service, did see much in the facts sub- 


264 


THE PORTRAIT. 


mitted, and declared that Belle was a born detective. 
Belle determined to proceed at once to North Carolina 
with the detective, and of course was attended by Mar- 
biiry. They had little difficulty in finding the locality, 
still wild and thinly inhabited. Some of the people 
remembered the circumstances for which they inquired. 
The sum of the information was, that D’Arlon died of 
injuries occasioned by the upsetting of. his carriage, 
four or five days after that occurrence, at Bibb’s, who 
did not maintain a good reputation. That the child 
(some thought that it was a girl, and some that it was 
a boy) was taken to Warren’s, as Bibb’s wife was 
dead, and died soon after ; although there was a story 
that it was Warren’s little girl that died. Nobody 
remembered the name of the child. Bibb had a sister, 
named Sally, who was away at the time. The servant 
disappeared the day after the accident, and there were 
stories that Bibb made way with him, and some of the 
money, and that the winter following he and his sister, 
and the Warrens, packed off for Tennessee, and had 
never been heard of since. All this strongly confirmed 
the general outline of Belle’s theory. Descriptions of 
Bibb and his sister, and the Warrens, were taken with 
as much accuracy as possible, and the party returned 
directly to Ohio, where they found Belle’s father, and 
where they were soon joined by Maud and her children. 
The next point was to identify Bibb with Green, or 
Warren with Warden, and inquiries were quietly made 
about Mantua, with no result save the confirmed mys- 
tery of Fred’s birth and person, and . something of a 
paper executed before Esquire Ladd. Then it was 
resolved to pursue Sam Warden, who was necessarily 


belle’s theory. 


265 


Warren, and also trace out the fortunes and whereabouts 
of John Green and Sally. Soon after their return from 
North Carolina the murder ofiOlney was committed, fol- 
lowed by the arrest'of Jake Green. The detective had an 
interview with Jake, who was reticent, but informed 
him that his father and aunt were at Nauvoo, and he 
believed Warden was with Jones in Missouri. Nothing 
could be got out of him, if he remembered anything, 
as to the matters of immediate inquiry ; and yet it 
seemed, from what he did say, that his father had 
moved several times. Belle, herself, at her own sug- 
gestion, had written the note to Fred which called him 
to Jake’s side, and Marbury copied and mailed it. The 
enthusiastic and romantic girl was full of the generous 
confidence that Fred at once, without fee or its hope, 
would magnanimously rush to the defence of his old 
enemy, and the son of the man who, as she believed, 
had done him the greatest wrong — had perhaps mur- 
dered his father — ^ and how wonderful that would be ! 
The . inquiry in North Carolina had shown that her 
conjectures as to Fred might be possible, unless, 
indeed, he may have been Sally’s son, which seemed 
improbable under the light of the ascertained facts. 
Warren had a child, which, with the Darlon or D’Arlon 
child, were the only ones known. If Sally had one, then 
there were three, and one only had died, which may 
have been Warren’s ; and there was no rumor in that 
neighborhood that Sally, whom her brother was said 
to have ill used in some matter of their father’s prop- 
erty, had ever had a child. Yet this was possible, and 
it had been suggested, after inquiries in Mantua, that 
it was doubtful whether the Wardens had ever had a 


266 


THE PORTRAIT, 


child as old as Fred ; they may have taken Sally’s, and 
the fact that Bibb sent the Darlon child to them, 
seemed to furnish some shadow for this also. 

In the latter part of March, Belle, ‘now accompanied 
by her father and the detective, started for St. Louis, 
intending to go to Nauvoo, while a trusty man also 
went with them, who was to hunt up Sam Warden, and 
secure his return to Ohio if possible. 

All that WRS learned at Nauvoo was the death of 
John Green, and that Sally had a month before started 
east, intending, it was said, to return to Mantua. She 
was traced to the river ; but whether she took a boat 
down, or what became of her, they could not ascertain. 
No result attended the inquiries of the detective con- 
cerning the writing executed by Green in Mantua. He 
found many old acquaintances at Nauvoo, prominent 
men among the Mormons, but no one seemed to have 
heard of it. A little depressed, but with her faith in 
no wise shaken. Belle returned home, not without the 
hope of finding Sally at Mantua, and to await news of 
Sam Warden. All that was known and rumored about 
Mantua had been carefully collected and collated ; and 
notwithstanding Sam Warden had bound Fred to John 
Green as his son. Belle had contended that this was 
more than met by Green’s own assertion that he was 
of his own blood, — Sally’s child, in short ; and that it 
was very plain to her that Sally never had a child. It 
was true, of course, that Sally had seemed very devoted 
to Fred ; but then, any woman would love him in a moth- 
erly way when he was small. Many of the Mormons 
remembered Fred at Kirtland, where the impression 
was that he was a son of Sally by some Southern gen- 


belle’s theory. 


267 


tleman ; and it was understood among them that Sally 
was a party to his escape, which was inconsistent with 
her being his mother. Why did she not keep him, or 
why not go with him ? 

Esquire Ladd had told all he knew of the paper 
acknowledged before him. It was a lengthy, closely- 
written document of several pages, of which he knew 
nothing, save that it bore the mark of Green and his 
own signature as a witness and justice ; he could not 
remember that Smith or Rigdon signed it. 

What was this writing? It undoubtedly was the 
written history of Green’s life, and as undoubtedly con- 
tained the story of Fred and his father’s fate. So Belle 
claimed. The descriptions of Green and Bibb coin- 
cided ; Bibb’s sister’s name was Sally, and Warden’s 
name was Sam, Of course, if they removed from North 
Carolina for any crime of Bibb’s, their names would be 
changed ; they might go to many places and change 
many times. Green had probabl}^ made a confession 
to the Prophet, and this placed him and his money in 
Smith’s power. The Mormons would be likely to want 
to keep and train Fred in their faith and ways, for fear 
he might himself, in tim6, discover his birth and de- 
mand his rights. In this opinion the detectives and Mr. 
Morris concurred. It was strengthened by the account 
of the Mormons, that Green was very poor, became 
crazy, and was kept in confinement, and died there. 
From an examination of the land records of Portage 
county, it was ascertained that at the time of his conver- 
sion he was an extensive landowner, and that soon after 
he" had sold all his real estate. Thus the case stood, 
when Belle returned home. Not all at once, nor by any 


268 


THE PORTRAIT. 


continuous argumentation, had Belle’s conclusions been 
reached, nor could she tell how or where the various 
elements and processes of it had taken form. Nor had 
she reached them unaided ; numerous and repeated 
discussions and arguments had been holden upon every 
fact, incident, and rumor connected with the case, 
from which her mind, and those of her assistants, had 
outlined tlie final course of thought, till what seemed 
likely and probable to others, were settled convictioRS 
with her. 

She returned to hear the rumors of mysterious papers 
found on the person of Jake, for which he had probably 
murdered Olney, and which might prove to be the writ- 
ings acknowledged by Green. They all looked forward 
to the trial of Jake as an event that might throw im- 
portant light upon the mystery, perhaps clear it all up. 
To Belle, there was beautiful and retributive justice in 
Fred’s being thrown into such an important position in 
reference to the case ; he was actually to defend Jake 
as his counsel. Vaguely, the dim and wondrously 
fascinating outline of a dramatic, almost poetic ro- 
mance was drawing upon her woman’s vision, in which 
she, too, was deeply involved. Was she to unravel it, to 
be in some w ay a sort of heroine in it ? How sweet and 
entrancing the fancy was to her, — too exquisitely sweet 
and delicious to ever be more than a dream. 

Wansor, after ineffective pumpings of the truculent 
and sealed-up Jake, now under the advice of counsel, 
made advances to the prosecuting officer, who finally 
found, as he thought, that the shrewd Wansor had 
useful information for which he might exchange a secr^ 
of State, not to be divulged till after the trial. 


: BELLE ARGUES HER CASE WITH MAUD, AND IS WORSTED. 

I Belle, what a marvel you have become ! I look 

[ upon you with perfect amazement ! You, my 

\ dreamy, mystical, romantic sister, who looked upon all 
[ men as so many big brothers, to be believed in, with 
r never a lover among them all, — here you are a perfect 
heroine, — making long and dangerous journeys in the 
winter, and leading and managing men as if they were 
so many little boys.” 

This conversation was had the first night after Belle’s 
return from the West, and after she had recounted the 
particulars of her journey, and Maud was now sitting 
at her feet. 

“ And, Maiidy dear, I’m a wonder to mj^self ; I won- 
'der at my strength and courage and energy. Oh, 
j- I’ve dreamed all my life till now, and how glad I am 
f to wake up ! You don’t know the exhilaration and al- 
^ most ecstasy of doing, or of trying to do things, to feel 
[ your faculties like new fountains stir, and hear their 
f voices calling, like new sounds. How we women live 
I out of the world ! And to find these men out, to see 
[■ what dear, delicious humbugs they really are. Just to 
[ sit and hear them argue, for instance, is too funny. 
[ 'for anything in this world. Our father and Mr. Wansor 
[: ( 269 ) 


270 


THE POIlTRA.IT. 


would not at first agree upon anything. Our dear 
precious is more unworldly than even a woman ; 
and Wansor, in a small way, is shrewd and subtle. 
He does eveiTthing indirectly. He’d rather not know 
a thing unless he can draw it out in a cork-screwy 
way. He always supposes men act from the basest 
motives. Indeed, he don’t believe that any others 
exist ; and he and our father argued and settled, and 
unsettled everything ; no matter whether it was of the 
least importance or not, or whether they could connect 
it wdth anything, it had to be settled, and then talked 
over, and then set down for argument. And then, 
Maud, if you could see how these Mormons live, poorer 
than the whites among the mountains, so squalid, and 
the, women, poor things, so ignorant, and yet such 
enthusiasts, that it was almost beautiful. But what a 
horror Nauvoo is ! AYhat dreadful men must have 
congregated there ! And then, Maudy, men are coarse- 
fibered. I suppose they have to be ; one cannot asso- 
ciate two months with a detective and hear his uncon- 
scious talk without thinking less of the sex. They 
make such innocent revelations of themselves. Of 
course, dear, our father, and your James, and — ” 

“ Your prince. Belle, are exceptions. Dear, I know 
all that ; let them go for the present. You are just a 
shade thinner, — look a little worn, and yet, somehow, 
you are lovelier, — have more character. I only fear 
that this hero may not be w^orthy of you, after all. 
Dear stupid ! mooning around, unknowing, and you 
worrying your brain and soul out for him ! Oh, if he 
don’t worship you when he knows, — no matter how it 
comes out! And, Belle, dear, I half suspect that this 


BELLE ARGUES HER CASE WITH MAUD. 271 

letter is from him,’’ — holding up Fred’s note from 
Mantua. “ It has been here many days.” As Belle’s 
eyes fell upon it, they filled with the old, marvellous 
light, and just a bright suffusion kindled up lip and 
cheek. She opened it with a hand that trembled, ran 
her eye over it, and, with a cry of anguish, threw her 
face down upon the bosom of her wondering sister, and, 
for a moment, abandoned herself to tears. 

“ My poor, poor Belle ! My precious one ! ” And 
with tender words and gentle caresses from Maud, Belle 
recovered, and, placing the letter in Maud’s hands, 
walked away to a window ; then she came back, and, 
kneeling by Maud, looked mutely up into her moved 
face. 

“ Belle, Belle, do you not love this so sorely-stricken 
and beautiful young man ? Oh, I forgive him his inno- 
cent stupidity ! ” 

“ Oh, Maud ! and you a woman, to ask me this ! ” 

“ And how do you love him?^’ 

“ With heart and soul and mind and strength, — as 
a woman. may worship her idol!” dropping her face 
into Maud’s lap. Maud’s arms went about her sister’s 
waist. 

‘•Why should you and he be longer unhappy, then? 
Belle, I cannot understand you ! ” 

“Am I not a wife, with a husband only just a 
little away from me?” with a deep, earnest, hollow 
voice. “ Oh, Maud ! If by any unheard-of evil miracle 
a man, an ideal one, should love you, and your whole 
self was drawn to him with more than answering love, 
and he should ask for a token, no matter what or how 
small, from you, what would you answer?” 


272 


THE PORTRAIT. 


‘ ‘ But he only asks for a sign that you forgive him — 
the good Lord knows what for ! — that he may be but 
your casual acquaintance.’’ 

“Maud, don’t mistake, — the smallest, tiniest thing 
that is, would grow to be the largest in the world ; it 
would be a token of love ! ” 

“ And why shouldn’t you give him a token of love, 
pray ? and your full heart and whole self, — I beg to 
know ? ” 

“ Because, — can’t you understand, Maud? ” 

“ No, I cannot. Oh, my poor, precious Belle! too 
pure and precious for earth ! Can’t you see that this is 
a phantom ? Don’t you feel that it is, in your heart and 
soul?” 

“ I begin to feel that it is, but I cannot so see it 
with a lower and smaller voice. 

Maud was too wise to press the question. She would 
leave it to the logic of love, — the only logic she had 
much faith in. 

“And this Fred, this D’Arlon, — and what is to 
become of him. Belle? What if he comes, finally, and 
demands your love — demands you — comes and takes 
you? It is in his old Norman Norse berserker blood, 
perhaps.” 

“ He will not, Maud, when he knows alL” 

“ Don’t delude yourself. Belle. Man is born to do- 
minion. To covet, with him, is to acquire. When he 
wooes, he will win ; and it is our poor nature. Belle, to 
be wooed and won. Where a woman’s heart has gone, 
she is very apt to follow.” 

“ Don’t you believe, Maud, that there are men cap- 
able of loving women generously, purely, and self- 


BELLE ARGUES HER CASE WITH MAUD. 273 

sacrificingly ? and that there are women who can be 
so loved, and who will not permit themselves to be 
loved in any other way ? ” 

“ I do believe both. But, Belle, if this youth is what 
you suppose, or if he is not — and it makes no differ- 
ence, as I see — would you doom him to a solitary life, 
— a cold asceticism, without home, or wife and chil- 
dren?” 

“Might he not finally marry; and would he not 
love his children ? ” 

“ And you hold the first place in his heart? What a 
wrong to some sweet, pure woman, and what an out- 
rage to him ! ” And stepping to the nursery door, 
where her beautiful children were with an attendant, 
just being put to bed, — “James, come here!” In 
tripped a child of wondrous beauty, with cherub face 
and locks, and in an earthly night-dress, — “Jimmy, 
go and climb into Aunt Belle’s lap, and put your arms 
about her neck, and call her mamma I ” and the frolick- 
some boy obeyed. Springing to her lap, and throwing 
his arms about her neck, he nestled himself upon her 
bosom, with, “Mamma! oh, my beautiful mamma!” 
Then, releasing his arms, came back for his mother’s 
kiss, and sprang to his bed. 

“ Belle,” said the sweet and thoughtful mother, “sup- 
pose that Fred was the father of that child, — would 
it not be agony beyond endurance, the thought that 
another .woman was his mother? Oh, Belle ! ” 

“ Maud ! ” — from the innermost depths of her being 
spoke the strongly-agitated girl — “ the most sacred and 
the holiest thing in the world is to be a mother. The 




Me portrait. 


mystery of the first creation is no greater miracle than 
this wondrous thing.” 

“ And loving as you do, Belle, would you put all this 
from you?” 

“Oh, Maud ! Maud ! Maud ! Ask God to help me ! ” 


CHAPTER XLIV. 


MOSS-ROSES. 

nV/r ARBURY’S trip South. had given him new views 
of slavery, which were largely sympathized in 
by Mr. Morris ; and the announcement that Mr. Gid- 
dings was to speak within two or three miles of them, 
induced them to attend the meeting. On the morning 
of the day, it was rumored that the eloquent young 
Democrat mentioned on the placards was no other 
than Fred, who was now an object of paramount in- 
terest to the Morris circle, arid whose fortunes had for 
the last two months been their one theme of thought, 
labor, and anxiety. There was the greatest curiosity 
to see and hear him. 

To Belle, the news that Fred was in the neighbor- 
hood was peculiarly exciting. She determined at once 
to attend the meeting, and induced her sister Maud, 
who, next to Belle, took the largest interest in Fred, 
to be of the party. 

Before she left home, she selected a few half-opened 
moss-roses, which she wore on her bosom, as may be 
remembered, and which Maud observed seemed to be 
adjusted in a manner that would admit of their being 
easily removed. On consultation, the gentlemen were 
decidedly of opinion that Fred should be invited to 
( 275 ) 


276 


THE PORTRAIT. 


spend the night at the Morris mansion ; whether he 
should be let into the secret of his fortunes, should be 
afterwards determined. 

Belle was decidedly opposed to this, — perhaps she 
could not tell why, had she tried. It may have been 
more a matter of womanly feeling and sentiment than 
of reason. When pressed for a reason, the miracle of 
coolness, and shrewdness, and practical sense which 
she had become, only pouted, and said very prettily, 
but very decidedly, that she was a woman, and not 
obliged to give a reason ; and Maud instinctively ad- 
hered to Belle. Poor child ! she must see Fred ; she 
wanted to be near him and hear him, and she meant to 
carry that bunch of rose-buds, and if she gave them to 
him, then she wanted to go away from him for a little. 
She could not tell him about himself till she could 
make it certain. She had not yet heard from Warden 
or Sally. She would at least wait till after the trial. 
She wanted to hear again from his mother. , She wanted 
to wait ; she wanted time for herself. She knew she 
should tell him all her heart and self, and she wanted 
to know her full self. Somehow Edward had grown 
more shadowy, and her marriage to him had become 
shadowy too, and did not seem to rest . on her con- 
science at all, but only as a phantom in her mind and 
memory. 

They went and heard the speeches, and were all alike 
in ecstasies over Fred’s. Mr. Morris and Marbufy, as 
well as Maud, had seen the famous portrait in Flor- 
ence, and at the owner’s residence in Boston ; they 
pronounced Fred its living counterpart, and had no 
lingering doubt of his being the son of its original. 


MOSS-HOSES. 


^77 


As for Belle, Fred’s speech was more than it could 
by possibility be to others. Through his eyes she 
could look into his soul, which she felt was pure and 
exalted as her own. How much he towered above all 
the men about him ! and in his anger he was the 
retributive angel of wrath, beautiful and terrible. 
Even Maud could now forgive him for not reading the 
sealed book of his own history. 

When the meeting was over. Belle insisted on going 
home, and for once did not have her way. Mr. Gid- 
dings’s friend had, in advance, sent Mr. Morris and 
party an invitation to dinner, which had been accepted. 
Then Fred was brought in ; all the glory of his face 
was gone, and he was cold, almost haughty. She could 
not wonder at it, but was hurt and pained more than 
she could express. She could not comprehend or make 
allowance for him. Why must he not know that he could 
not love any woman in vain ? that there must be some 
reason for her silence and seeming coldness ? Had he not, 
while on the stand, looked into her very heart, and when 
he took his seat, like a marble statue by her at the table, 
was he not a mere machine? Yet she could see that 
he had grown thin, and was now almost haggard. She 
felt that he was as wretched as he could be, and what 
a grieving joy that was to her. What a blessed thing 
to be near him, even in this mood. How' madly and 
meaninglessly voices clamored and clangered about 
her ! He spoke, but how cold and constrained ; and 
was not she frigid and distant also? But then he 
would turn to her, and besides, all eyes were on him 
constantly, — and then he was called out, and in the 
little swirl and turn of heads to follow him, the moss- 


278 


THE PORTRAIT. 


roses, in their greenish purple hoods from which they 
were just breaking, somehow reached the side of his 
plate, and he did not return. Poor roses ! 

Was it a providence that called him off ? What if some 
accident should happen to him ? But none would hap- 
pen. God would restore him to his mother ; that 
surely would happen. Then joy and hope sprang up in 
her heart, and light and warmth to her face ; she heard 
so gladly the warm and just things spoken of Fred, and 
could have kissed Mr. Giddings for his beautiful and 
kindly words. 

A more wretched young man did not breathe on the 
continent than the so loved, admired, praised, and 
gifted young orator, who rode out on his lonely way. 
He felt crushed, and, man-like, was taciturn and gloomy. 
The man who came for him, after two or three vain 
attempts at conversation, relapsed, through Yankee- 
doodle badly whistled, into silence, and devoted his 
energies to his horses on the home-stretch. 

What was it after all to sway men, to stir up a mob, 
to win their admiration ? Even now it was being whis- 
pered about the thing he was, and she would hear it- 
His heart was too utterly wretched to feel even this 
sting. Let it go: some cheer, some comfort, some 
light — at least rest — might come. Love, warmth, and 
gladness were not for him. Then with a determined 
effort he crushed his emotions and heart-throbs down 
in a mass, and placed his will upon them. No ; these 
things were not for him ; his way was to be solitary, — 
had always been. As they gained a hill under the rays 
of the falling day, far in the upper air, cold and thin, 
and where the light was still white, his eye caught the 


MOSS-ROSES. 


279 


form of an eagle flying eastward, cleaving the air, as 
by an effort of will, in calm, proud, conscious might, 
sweeping from gathering night to meet the day that 
was to come, and alone. High up and solitary his eye 
followed it till the bow-like curve of the mighty wings 
melted, till, diminishing to a speck, the eagle disap- 
peared in the darkening void, coming from mystery 
and lost in the unknown, flashing for a moment on the 
wondering gaze of men below, and passing beyond the 
reach of their feeble vision. This vaguely hinted to 
him of a career straight, high, proud, and alone. Lord ! 
how his man’s soul swelled and went upward, crushing 
its mist into his dimming eyes at the thought. 

As he went on, he seemed to detach himself from the 
clinging, haunting presence of Belle ; and as he receded 
from her radiance, if his shadow of intense darkness 
grew huge and shapeless, it also dissipated and grew 
less palpable and obscuring ; and when he finally 
escaped to a sort of hazy twilight, and mentally turned 
backward, objects seemed again to fall under the 
law of perspective, and he determined that Belle 
should maintain her proper place. Other men had 
been slighted, scorned, and despised, and had lived, 
perhaps, improved and benefited. He knew he must 
live ; but to what purpose ? Pshaw ! how weak and 
commonplace he was. And he closed his eyes to it all, 
and rode forward. 

Twilight had come, and the fingers of the early night 
had shaken out upon the gathering dew the aroma 
of the flowers, and were closing their censers till another 
day. 

Sleepy children subsiding from the long day’s happy 


280 


THE PORTRAIT. 


play, and in whose swimming eyes the shadows of 
dreams were deepening, dropped on doorsteps, and 
nodded in forgetfulness. Lights came cheerily into 
darkening windows, and the contented voices of happy 
husbands and wives, and the laughter of girls, came 
out from many a wayside homestead. There came 
upon the consciousness of the burdened and weary 
youth the vision of a rose-wreathed cottage, under fra- 
grant trees, in the twilight, and a white-robed form of 
wondrous loveliness tripping eagerly out, with red lips 
and white arms, to greet and welcome him. As the 
vision cheated him of pain, he did not banish it, though 
the form was that of Belle. 

On his arrival he found that his associate had been 
notified that the prosecutors had determined to have 
the case set for Monday of the second week of the 
court instead of the third, which was to commence its 
session the next day. This arrangement would leave 
scant time to secure the witnesses for the defendant. 
The announcement was like a trumpet-call to Fred, 
who was prompt when challenged to labor on ordinary 
occasions, and now a summons to action was an abso- 
lute relief. The case was of the utmost gravity — the 
most important he had ever appeared in — he was to 
be the responsible counsel, and unembarrassed by the 
timid counsels of an older and more cautious leader. 
He belifeved Jake was entirely innocent. He thought 
he knew the whole ground, and had thoroughly culti- 
vated every inch of it ; had examined all the books 
within reach, and taken all their hints. 

He did not go the next day to Warren, and of course 
did not see Belle, who had become much interested in 


MOSS-ROSES. 


281 


Mr..Giddings’s canvass, and induced her father to take 
Maud and herself over to town. In some way the 
meeting fell very flat to her, and she returned home 
gi*ave and quiet. 

Meantime, Fred reexamined the whole case ; made 
a very accurate list of the State’s witnesses, with notes 
of their evidence, arranged his own, notifled Dr. 
Ackly, and the witnesses from Ravenna and Warren, 
issued subpoenas for his witnesses, got a list of the 
proposed jurors, and ascertained all that could be 
known of them individually. When the day arrived 
he was ready, prepared, in the sense in which careful 
lawyers use that word. 

What motive induced a change in the programme of 
the State, Fred never knew, though he may have 
guessed ; whether it was for the purpose of shortening 
his time for preparation, or for other cause, he did 
not trouble himself to ascertain, although he suspected 
the former. 


CHAPTER XLV. 


AN OLD TIME MURDER TRIAL. 


ANFIELD was one of the oldest towns on the 



Reserve, in the midst of a rich and highly culti- 
vated country, and was noted as the residence of Elisha 
Whittlesy, Judge Newton, Judge Church, and other 
prominent men. It was a delightful little town of two 
or three hundred inhabitants, many of whom were 
wealthy and refined. The trial was an event of 
great moment, and although occurring at a very busy 
season for an agricultural community, was attended 
from the beginning to the end by an immense number 
of people, including many of the wives and daughters 
of the farmers, while many of the ladies of Warren, 
Youngstown, and other towns, accompanied their hus- 
bands and brothers, attending every day’s session to 
the end of the trial. 

Judge Newton presided, assisted by three associ- 
ates. He had been long and favorably known at the 
bar, had much reputation as an advocate, and as a 
judge presided with dignity and urbanity. By the 
laws of Ohio, thirty-six men were specially empanelled 
from which to select the jury, the defendant having 
twenty-three peremptory challenges, — a right to reject 
twenty-three without assigning any cause. The pros- 


( 282 ) 


AN OLD TIME MURDER TRIAL. 


283 


editing attorney, on this occasion, was aided by two 
lawyers of local eminence, and perhaps they and the 
court were a little surprised — the latter unpleasantly 
so — that the prisoner should be represented by two 
mere youths at the bar, where a man is young at forty, 
one of whom was known to possess but moderate abil- 
ity. The rumor of Fred’s speech had reached Mahoning 
county, and many were in attendance who heard it. 
His youthfulness was a great point to him, after all, 
and with his rare personal advantages had made him a 
favorite at once, while the most extravagant stories of 
his powers as an advocate gained ready credence. 

The ladies were captivated by his good looks, and 
began to look favorably on Jake ; while some men never 
knew a man whom ladies admired who knew anything, 
and as for Jake, — he’d be hanged anyhow. When the 
case was called, Fred promptly answered that he was 
ready ; which the State’s attorney was a little surprised 
at, as he had counted on a motion to continue, or at least 
for a week’s delay, and possibly for a change of venue. 
Young as he was, Fred knew the effect of a cheerful 
confidence on his part, upon others. 

The jurors were called, and took their seats in a 
body. They had been selected with careful fairness 
from parts of the country remote from the scene of the 
murder, and underwent a close scrutiny by Fred, whose 
life and experience had made him a good student of 
men. The jury were sworn as to their qualifications, 
and examined by the counsel on either side, the State 
taking the initiative, — the court acting as the trier 
of the jurors. Fred conducted his side with great tact 
and judgment, and with a quiet, easy, grave manner 


284 


THE PORTRAIT. 


that was quite charming and contrasted with that of the 
prosecuting attorney, who was sharp, and often rude, to 
his opponent. To the surprise of the court and bar, 
the twelve were secured from the first panel and 
sworn in an hour. Fred obviously looked for but 
one qualification — intelligence — and unhesitatingly 
accepted two or three who said that they had formed 
opinions. He knew enough of the workings of* the 
human intellect to feel sure that when a man discovered 
that his opinion was based on an erroneous statement, 
he distrusted the whole theory upon which it was 
formed, and his judgment was apt at once to accept its 
opposite. Fred knew that it would be made to appear 
that the popular view of the homicide was very erro- 
neous, and he counted on this law of mind. 

The prisoner was arraigned, and the indictment 
solemnly read, the plea of Not Guilty entered, and the 
case was ready, when the district attorney suggested 
that the court take a recess for dinner. Those were 
the good old times of honest work in the country ; and 
after consultation with the counsel. Judge Newton 
announced that during the trial the court would assem- 
ble at eight, a.m., take a recess from twelve to one, 
and sit until six in the evening. 

On resuming, the district attorney opened out his 
case in a written speech of much force of adjective and 
great clearness of denunciation. He said that the mur- 
dered man, Olney, had left the Mormons at Nauvoo, 
had visited his brethren at Kirtland, from which place 
he started two days before the murder, and passed 
along a well-known route, and was seen to enter the 
fatal woods just at dusk, and so forth. That he had 


AN OLD TIME MURDER TRIAL. 


285 


been followed from Nauvoo by Green, himself the son 
of a murderer, as he was prepared to show, who 
arrived at Kirtland a day or two after Olney, and was 
seen on the same route following him. That he was 
traced into the woods and tracked out, and that when 
arrested there was found on him a remarkable docu- 
ment, which he presumed would amaze the counsel for 
the prisoner, which he had taken from the body of the 
murdered man, and which would furnish proof of 
motive, and so forth. It was to secure this that Olney 
was followed and assassinated. 

When the witnesses were called for the State, Judge 
Newton asked Fred, in a suggestive tone, whether he 
would have them separated. Fred answered that he 
did not deem it necessary. He presumed the witnesses 
would do their best to tell the truth, and that in that 
rested the defendant's hope. 

The State produced witnesses, proving the finding 
of the deceased, and the doctors, who swore that life 
was destroyed by a blow or blows on the head, fractur- 
ing the skull, and so forth. Fred, in a very quiet way, 
put these men under the gentle torture of a cross-exam- 
ination such as the learned M.D.’s sometimes enjoy at 
the hands of their brethren at the bar. In this instance 
it was the more embarrassing, as the dreaded Ackly 
was observed to be a grim listener. When asked to 
explain how they knew that the man died of a blow on 
the head, their reasons were not satisfactory. They 
made no examination of any kind ; did not deem it 
necessary. He was dead, his skull fractured, and most 
men would deem that sufficient. Of course it could 
be done by a blow, and in no other way. Had they 


286 . 


THE PORTRAIT. 


removed the scalp? No. How did they know the 
skull was fractured ? Did they know whether the neck 
or spine was injured? They made no examination. 
The questioning was cool, quiet, but long and exhaus- 
tive. It was evident that here lay one position of the 
defence, and the State’s medical testimony left it dubi- 
ous as to the means and cause of death. The quick, 
cool, shrewd spectators saw the weakness of the case. 
Some marks and bruises were found on other parts of 
the body, produced, as was said, by dragging the body 
after the murder ; it was left quite doubtful whether 
they were not made before death, or might have been. 

It appeared that it had snowed on the night of the 
murder, and the snow was two or three inches deep in 
the morning, covering the body of the slain man ; and 
also that a watch and a small amount of money were 
found on him. 

Proof was then made that he was at Kirtland ; sev- 
eral saw him on the line of the road, and he was last 
' seen, just at dark, entering the woods ; that his horse 
was found nearly at the point of entering the wood, 
with one foot through the bridle rein, which had been 
loose, and which was now caught over a small stump 
or root, and thus tethered him. The saddle had turned, 
' and was found partly under his belly. A small port- 
manteau which he had carried was never found. Men 
swore to the presence of Jake in Kirtland ; but the 
exact time was left in doubt. Many saw a person 
much like him along the route of travel pursued by 
Olney, and on the same days. The road traversing the 
woods, which were about a mile and a half in extent, 
ran easterly, and Olney was going east. At about 


AN OLD TIME MURDER TRIAL. 287 

midway of the woods a road running south terminated 
in this east and west road. Without doubt Jake had 
travelled this north and south road some time in the 
latter part of the same night, or early the following, 
morning, for he stopped two miles south of it, where 
he took breakfast ; and before the snow melted olf 
he was tracked back to the east and west road ; from 
the point where he had eaten breakfast he was traced 
to Coshocton and arrested. When arrested, he refused 
to tell his name, and denied having been in Mahoning 
county at all ; and then he suddenly became silent, and 
refused to say anything more, and did not. 

“ What did you find on his person ?’' to the officer 
arresting him. 

“ A paper, or rather several papers, fastened to- 
gether.’* 

“ Look at this ; ” handing him a closely- written doc- 
ument. 

“That is it. He threw this from him, or from his 
clothes, where they lay in his sleeping- room, when we 
found him. I saw him throw it into the fire-place, in 
which was a little fire, and you see where it is 
scorched.” 

“You all see it, gentlemen,” said the prosecuting 
attorney, with an air. “I propose,” said he, rising, 
“ to read this paper to the jury. It is a most remark- 
able document,” glancing at Fred. 

“ Show it to Mr. Warden,” said the court. 

“I presume he is familiar with it, or ought to be,” 
remarked the lawyer, tossing it to him with an air of 
unconcern. 

A thrill ran through the frame of Fred as he turned 


288 


THE PORTRAIT. 


over three or four closely-written pages to the end, and 
found, “ John Green, his x mark,” attested by “ H. G. 
Ladd, Mantua, Jan. 10th, 1831.” 

“ The gentleman is doubtless familiar with the sig- 
nature ? ” meaningly. 

“ I’ve seen something like it ; most men make marks 
alike.” 

“ You’ll find it an interesting document with indif- 
ference. 

“That is very possible, though its interest does not 
shine out at once,” with forced calmness, while a chill, 
like a rigor mortis^ for an instant shivered through him, 
for his eye had caught his own name once or twice in 
running it over. It flashed across him that in this 
paper. Green, among other things, had set down his 
history, showing the details, probably, of his wretched 
birth, which could have no further bearing on the case 
than to show his personal relation to Jake, and create 
a prejudice against himself. His first and only thought 
was of the injury and mischief that such an expose 
must work to the case. None but a lawyer can appre- 
ciate — possibly credit — this statement. To the true 
advocate, everything, and self more than all, is subor- 
dinated, sunk, for the client. Fred would oppose the 
introduction of this writing to the last, and with only 
this glance he arose with it in his hand. 

‘ ‘ Do I understand that the prosecuting attorney 
proposes to read this thing in evidence ? ” 

“ Certainly.” 

“Your Honors, it purports to have been executed 
on the tenth of January, 1831, fourteen years ago, 
and can therefore by no possibility contain the slight- 


AN OLD TIME MURDER TRIAL. 


m 


est information as to the death of Olney in 1845. It 
was not made by the defendant, and its contents 
can by no rules of evidence be given against him. If 
I should be found with a book in my hands, you could 
not read it against me as evidence, unless you could 
show that I was its author.” 

“ If the court please,” answered the prosecuting attor- 
ney, “ the paper was made by John Green, the father of 
the prisoner, as I will show, and as the gentleman very 
well knows, and contains statements of the most damn- 
ing character,” with a significant look at Fred ; “ and 
as I stated in my opening, it was in the possession of 
the deceased, and it was to get possession of this paper 
that this most bloody, atrocious, wicked, hellish and dia- 
bolical murder was committed. I hope the gentleman 
understands, and will interpose no further objection.” 

“ I think I do,” — very modestly. “ It is offered for 
two purposes, I presume : to connect the defendant 
with the deceased by showing him in possession of the 
dead man’s goods, and then to supply the motive by 
showing the quality or value of the thing taken.” 

“ Exactly, — the gentleman states it exactly,” in his 
seat. 

“ Before it can be admitted for either purpose,” con- 
tinued Fred, “it must be proven to have been in the 
possession of the deceased at the time of death ; other- 
wise, the possession of it by the defendant raises no 
presumption against him. And as this is a paper 
writing, the contents of which alone give it value, 
proof of the execution of it, and the relation of the 
parties, must first be given.” 

“ I will satisfy the captious gentleman ! ” exclaimed 


^90 


^THE PORTRAlf. 


the prosecuting attorney. “Mr. Wansor, come to- 
ward ; ” and Belle’s detective took the stand. A short, 
stoutish, sharp, but good-natured looking man, who 
said that he was a detective of Philadelphia, recently 
on professional business at Nauvoo, where he had occa- 
sion to inquire after John Green, and found that he 
had died the fifth of January before j and that his sister 
left, as was supposed, for Ohio some time after. 

Fred, poor innocent, asked him, “ What took him to 
Nauvoo? ” 

Wansor stared at him for a moment in bewildered 
amazement, that he, of all men, should ask that ques- 
tion ; but recovering, “ I went on professional business 
for Miss Belle Morris, as I understand it, and was 
accompanied by her and her father. I must refer 3^011 
to her for the nature of our mission.” 

“Miss Belle Morris ! ” Fred’s breath went, and her 
name escaped him involuntarily. Two or three min- 
utes’ pause, and then, in a softened voice, “ Did you 
hear anything of Green’s sister, the defendant’s aunt, 
except what you have stated ? ” 

“No; she was thought to have gone down the 
river.” 

“Perhaps the gentleman would like to inquire after 
some other of his old friends and relatives,” with a 
meaning smile to the jury. 

“ I will — one other — if you please ; Mr. Wansor, 
when were you in Nauvoo?” 

“ We came from there about two weeks ago.” 

“ How long were you there? ” 

“ Some two or three weeks.” 

“Did 3"ou make the acquaintance of many of the 


AN OLD TIME MURDER TRIAL. 


291 


saints, my old friends and relatives, as the gentleman 
calls them ? ” 

“ Well, I saw a good many.’' 

“ What was my old friend Oliver Olney doing when 
you last saw him?” Sensation. 

“ I saw Olney several times. He had just returned 
from Kirtland, as I understood. I saw him several 
times.” Prodigious sensation, which reached the State’s 
counsel and the court. 

“ That is all ; many thanks,” very quietly. 

“ Do you say that you saw Olney — Oliver Olney — 
at Nauvoo?” asked the prosecuting attorney. 

“Oh, yes. 1 knew him before. Had seen him in 
Pittsburg, also in Philadelphia, and in 1836 at Kirt- 
land ; ” and Wansor was dismissed. 

There was a pause ; the counsel overhauled the 
indictment with a nervous eagerness, followed by a 
blank dismay, and after some hurried consultation 
they went on. 

They then called Ladd, of Mantua, who identified 
the paper ; said that it was signed by John Green 
in his presence, and acknowledged before him in the 
presence of Jo Smith and Rigdon, on the day of its 
date. He knew nothing of the writing or contents of 
the papers. He understood that the defendant was a 
son of John Green. 

Fred said that the defendant admitted the relation- 
ship. 

“I suppose, now,” said the prosecuting attorney, 
“ that the gentleman is satisfied, and I may now read 
these papers ; ” with an injured air. 

“ One moment, if the court please,” and Fred arose. 


292 


THE PORTRAIT. 


“ The real difficulty in the way of the State is not re- 
moved, or even approached. Not a word of evidence 
has yet been given to show that this paper was ever, 
at any time, in the hands of the deceased. How, then, 
can it be claimed that the defendant murdered him to 
get possession of it? How does the possession of this 
document by the defendant, tend to show that he had 
ever even seen the deceased ? ” 

One of the counsel for the State replied in a labored 
effort, and not without ingenuit\\ With no reply 
from Fred, the court unhesitatingly sustained the ob- 
jection, and excluded the document wholly. 

The State staggered on a little further, and in part 
met the blow it had received from its own witness, Wan- 
sor. A man who had known Olney in Ohio had seen 
the remains of the deceased, and recognized the body 
as that of Oliver Olney. He called him Olney, and so 
did others, and the body was spoken of as Olney’s. In 
answer to Fred, he said that he believed that Oliver 
had a brother John, who resembled him, yet what be- 
came of him he never knew. 

Others swore that the body was spoken of as that of 
Olney. It was further shown that the man had a small 
valise mailed on behind his saddle on the day preceding 
his death ; but, as sworn to by others, no vestige of it 
had been discovered since his death. And the State 
closed. 

It was somehow apparent to the spectators that the 
State had failed to make so strong a case as was sup- 
posed to exist, and, as often occurs, the outside opinion 
or impression was much changed, and was concentrat- 
ing about the leading counsel for the prisoner, who 


AN OLD TIME MURDER TRIAL. 


293 


was kindly looked upon, and sympathized with, as the 
defence. Nearly three days had passed in the trial. 
Numerous questions had arisen ; a great many wit- 
nesses had been examined, and yet through all the 
struggle he had steadily gained on the crowd, court, 
and bar. Modest, quiet, cool, clear, ready, with- 
out having thus far exhibited brilliant qualities, with 
unceasing good-nature, and the bearing of a gentleman, 
he had all the time impressed them with the idea of 
any amount of power and energy in reserve, which 
they expected to see developed. 

When the State closed, Fred drew a long breath 
of profound relief. He was still anxious, but without 
doubt of the result. He knew the proverbial uncer- 
tainty of juries, but had' studied those before him, and 
had already received from two or three, unconscious 
glances of that intelligence which a look will flash 
from one mind to another. Without any opening state- 
ment, he called his witness. 

When Dr. Ackly took the stand, there was a gen- 
eral movement to gain a good sight of the famous sur- 
geon and somewhat distinguished scientific witness, 
certainly the most remarkable, of his day, in the West. 
Slightly above the medium height,* and large, with a 
little stoop in the shoulders, a strong-marked face, 
dark, with black eyes that could flash out the original 
ingrained savage, or melt with the tenderness of the 
enthroned woman, who sometimes ruled them, which 
were overhung with heavy brows, while from his fore- 
head were swept back heavy masses of coarse black 
hair. His manner was careless and free ; a man of 
little culture, commanding talents, iron nerve, and 


294 


THE PORTRAIT. 


a cool, shrewd, artful, artless method of dealing and 
swearing, at once impressive, conclusive, and exceed- 
ingly dangerous. Like other distinguished medical ex- 
perts, he was to be retained, and his evidence was an 
ingenuous argument under oath. Nothing was ever 
more simple and plain, and as to nothing did he ever 
seem so utterly indififerent as the wants or wishes of 
the side which called him ; nothing was often so help- 
ful as the seemingly unconscious blows that he ap- 
peared to give his own side. He was an intense 
hater, capable of narrow, mean, and cruel prejudices, 
and wielded a tongue sharp, bitter, and caustic, as well 
as soft, soothing, and seductive. 

AVhen called, he lazily arose, moved forward, and 
declined to be seated ; stated his profession and res- 
idence ; he had had some little experience in surgery ; 
was a professor in the Ohio Medical College, etc. ; saw 
the body of the deceased ; it was disinterred, and found 
in a state of good preservation. He went on to say that, 
assisted by his distinguished friends Dr. Bond, of War- 
ren, and Dr. Jones, of Ravenna, he had made a partial 
examination. They removed the entire scalp from the 
cranium, and dissected away the soft parts of the neck, 
so as to lay bare the spinal column ; no injury of any 
kind had been sustained by the bones of the cranium ; 
no fracture, and hardly an abrasion of the scalp ; the 
skull was removed, and the condition of the brain dem- 
onstrated that no serious injury had fallen upon the 
head ; the neck had been dislocated, broken, as people 
say, and that had caused death, which followed instan- 
taneously ; it was not produced by a blow on the head ; 
could not have been by any possibility ; it was undoubt- 


AN OLD TIME MURDER TRIAL. 


295 


edly occasioned by the man’s being suddenly and vio- 
lently thrown from his horse, so as to fall and receive 
the whole w^eight of the body on the head and neck. A 
horse suddenly rearing, so as to give an increase of 
height, and throwing a man clear from the saddle, 
would be. equal to tlie injury. The man was found a 
little at the left of the road, through the woods ; as 
he was riding along cold and weary, something at the 
right, and nearly in front of his horse, had frightened 
the animal, when he reared, turned suddenl^^, partly on 
his hind feet, to the left, throwing his rider helplessly 
upon his head, and breaking liis neck, and where he 
fell, he was found. If care had been used, when the 
snow melted, the tracks of the horse would have been 
found where he turned and ran back ; the imprint of 
the man’s head in the ground would liave been dis- 
covered, and the profession would have lost the bril- 
liant and useful example of its two members who swore 
that the man w'as killed by blows on his head from a 
bludgeon, in the hands of a man on the ground, which 
had fractured his skull. 

Dr. Ackly was put under a close cross-examination, 
— as close as he ever permitted himself to endure ; for 
he had a great power in good-naturedly holding his 
cross-questioner at long range, just as suited the exi- 
gencies of his case. 

He was asked wdiether he did not think that if a man, 
the defendant for instance, had suddenly sprang at the 
horse it might not have frightened him so as to have 
produced the result named. 

Fred asked “ if that was a question for an expert.” 
Ackly turned and scanned Jake with apparent care for 


296 


THE PORTRAIT. 


a moment, and answered “ that he thought that he might 
scare a horse, possibly. Horses had their own views of 
men ” — a laugh ; but, lingering a moment, “ he thought 
that if even Jake Green had been there to kill the man, 
he would not have commenced by trying to induce the 
horse to run away with him.” This produced a sensa- 
tion marked and distinct. When Ackly left the stand, 
the chances for the edification of the people, by a pub- 
lic execution, were much diminished. In his testimony 
as to the injuries to the deceased, he was fully sus- 
tained by the two doctors who assisted him. 

Fred called several witnesses, who established the 
fact that the snow fell during the early part of the 
night in question, certainly before midnight; that Jake 
had been about Mantua the latter part of February and 
March, and that no one had known of his having been 
in Kirtland ; that he had been into Middlefield and 
Parkman, in Geauga county, on business, and that late 
in the night of the homicide he had called at a small 
tavern, kept by one Blair, within four or five miles of 
the scene of the death, to inquire his way, going south- 
erly, and was told that when he reached the east and 
west road so often named, he must turn, take it, and 
going east, take the first right-hand road ; that it was 
snowing then, — that he stopped long enough to get 
supper, when he went on, seeming to be in a hurry. 
Thus a considerable time was left, during which he was 
not accounted for. He had evidently traversed that 
right-hand road the next morning, and very early ; 
where he was during the intervening time, was not 
made very apparent. 

Fred also called witnesses who sustained the state- 


AN OLD TIME MURDER TRIAL. 


297 


ment of Wansor, that Oliver Olney was still living, had 
been at Kirtland, and had, as was supposed, started 
west for Nauvoo ; that he was a man five feet and about 
ten inches in height, and that the deceased, by measure- 
ment, was barely five feet seven. He also showed the 
distance from where the body was found, back to the 
corner, to be nearly a half mile, and that the track 
claimed to be Jake’s came down from the west to the 
corner of the road in the woods, and then turned south. 
Then he rested his case confidently, but anxiously. Did 
mortal lawyer ever try a case that he was not anxious 
a])out, with an anxiety which nothing but the final 
verdict in his favor could relieve? 

Tlie counsel for the State had no idea of abandoning 
the case. They had commenced the. trial with a flourish 
of the confidence which they really felt. Their expe- 
rience in such trials had been small, and the prepara- 
tion of tlie prosecuting attorney was very faulty. Their 
case had crumbled away in their hands, and had 
received two or three severe and perhaps fatal blow^s. 
They had also, as was natural, under-estimated their 
youthful opponents, and had suffered for it, as lawyers 
sometimes do. On the coming in of the court at one 
o’clock of the fourth day, their best advocate arose for 
the final argument to the jury. 

Middle-aged, of fine person, good face, and not 
without skill as an advocate, with an ingenious way of 
grouping things, and a hard, dry way of making points, 
Mr. Mack arose to present the case for the State, and 
a hush came over the immense and expectant audience, 
which thronged the court-room of that warm, early 
June afternoon. 


298 


THE PORTRAIT. 


He began by amplifying the importance and gravity 
of the case. A murder had been committed in their 
midst. A young man arose early one morning, and on 
his way to his work had stumbled upon a corpse, stark, 
under the snow, — a man done to death by murderers, 
who had stolen upon, surrounded and murdered him in 
the woods, alone in the darkness ; and of this the jury 
were to inquire and judge. For the result they must be 
responsible. If it were of no moment, if life were of no 
consequence, the defendant could be acquitted, and the 
highways given over to bandits, to waylaying assassins. 

A man, a stranger, had been slain, no matter by wdiat 
immediate means, so long as it was made to appear 
that it was by violence, — whether the man was knocked 
off his horse or thrown off, if by the agency of the 
defendant, it was all the law required. He was a 
stranger, and men called him Olney, — Oliver Olney ; 
that was his name ; he was known by no other. And 
that was all that was necessary. No matter though 
there may have been fifty Oliver Olneys. Besides, it 
was a man, and not a name, that was slain. 

Undoubtedly, several were concerned in the mur- 
der, all of whom had escaped but one ; and it was 
no matter what part he took, whether he struck, or 
w^atched, or merely bore away the plunder, he was 
guilty of the murder. That there were several, was 
proven by showing one man following on the track, 
while another was seen approaching the place of the 
final hunt, from one side, as unquestionably others did, 
though unseen from other sides. The defendant was 
proven, — it was admitted that he was within less 
than a half mile of where the body was found, and at 


AN OLD TIME MURDER TRIAL. 


299 


a time awfully near the fatal hour. Nobody knows 
when the man met his murderers. It may have been 
early in the night, — suppose it was ; — the defendant 
was seen approaching the same place early enough to 
have met him. And if it is said that Jake Green never 
was east of the corner of the south road, what proof 
is there of that ? Why, that he made tracks early the 
next morning in the road leading from that corner ’ 
south. Where was he that night? and what was he 
doing? where did he stay? with whom? He was not all 
night walking from Blair’s tavern to the corner, and 
where was Olney killed? He may have been killed 
west of the corner, and his body carried to the point 
where it was found, or Jake may have mounted his 
horse and ridden back, and ingeniously fastened it 
where it lay. He would know better than to escape on 
the horse of the man whom he had just murdered, and 
then he would have walked back to the corner on the 
new snow, all innocently, and take the road he liad 
inquired for. 

And what became of the portmanteau ? Somebody 
stole and rifled that ; who was it? No man was known 
to be in those woods that night but Jake. If he did 
not take it, who did? It was not, after long search, 
found, and when Jake was arrested, he denied, that he 
had been in that locality at all. If innocent, why 
make this denial? Then remembering all, he became 
dumb, could not speak, would not speak, and did not 
speak ; and then this fatal document, which he thrust 
so fearfully and foolishly from him ; we have not 
proved that it was ever in the hands of the murdered 
man, have we? Why, then, did Jake in mortal fear cast 


300 


THE PORTRAIT. 


it from him ? He knew what it was. He knew where 
he got it. He had murdered a man for it, and was 
fleeing with it. He knows where he got it, and can tell ; 
and if he did not take it from the dead body of the 
murdered man, I demand that he tell us where he did 
get it. Of course he is silent. His act and conduct 
are a confession that he murdered the man and robbed 
his body, and then fled with his booty. And such a 
document ! It has not been read ; I may not read it ; 
the confession of a crime, a murder and a robbery by 
his father, and he, the son, committing another murder 
and robbery to secure it, and of all the unheard-of mar- 
vels in courts of justice, that this^^oung and accomplished 
lawyer should be here, his defender ! I stand in the 
presence of these facts, and of this man so strangely 
brought together, in utter amazement, almost in awe, 
and I demand an explanation of him ; tiiis man is 
here defending his enemy — the son of his worst 
enemy, enemies alike of him and his race — of the 
human race. Then, with a happy and forcible per- 
oration, he sat down. 

The above shows the course of the argument, as well 
as its spirit. The speech was happy and forcible, and 
Fred felt that it had made a dangerous impression upon 
the jury, as it certainly had upon the crowd. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 


FRED S ARGUMENT. 



HE references to himself surprised Fred somewhat, 


and he did not know what to think of some of 
them ; but looking at everything as an advocate 
during a trial, he supposed that they were made by 
counsel in the exaggerating heat of argument ; not 
unwilling to produce an effect, and not scrupulous as 
to the means employed. He would, however, seek an 
explanation and an exploration of the Green paper 
after the trial, and dismissed both for a time. 

The crowd in attendance had been constantly increas- 
ing, and on the day of final argument it had become 
dense almost beyond endurance. Great anxiety was 
felt to hear the speeches, and especially that of hVed. 
His reputation as a speaker, and the favor which his 
conduct of the case and manners had won him, made 
his speech the event of the trial to be looked forward 
to. There was a great influx of ladies. Several occu- 
pied the bench of the court ; others sat on the clerk’s 
table, and still others in two condensed rows between 
the bar- table and the raised jury-box, so as to be 
exactly between the speaker and jury. 

In the moment’s buzz that followed the speech of 


( 301 ) 


302 


THE PORTRAIT. 


Mr. Mack, and as the crowd was readjusting itself, 
a little movement, a rising and changing of seats, and 
a rustle of draperies by the ladies, who might be heard 
fanning and lisping from every part of the packed 
room, drew Fred’s attention to the end of the table at 
his left ; and there, within two yards of him, of all the 
mortals of the lower world, or immortals of the upper, 
sat Belle ! His brain whirled, and he grasped the bar- 
table in a spasm. But there she was, — not cold, dis- 
tant and repellant, as when he sat by her last, but 
radiant, triumphant and happy. There was the old 
light that flashed over the icy waters, that inspired 
him on the speaker’s stand, and which now had some- 
thing more, — something to assure, inspire, and, as it 
seemed, to reward. She was accompanied by Maud 
and a beautiful matronly woman, whom Fred did not 
remember ever to have seen before. A moment, — and 
he arose, calm, clear and strong, inspired and elevated, 
for his final effort. He stood for an instant under a 
weight of sensations, not favorable to rapid or even 
easy speech, and hesitated and faltered with emotions 
that interrupted the communication between thought 
and utterance. None but an advocate can understand 
the mingled feelings with which he arises in a momen- 
tous case, and no advocate has ever described or 
expressed them, and perhaps they cannot be expressed. 
Fred’s voice was low, and a little plaintive, and hun- 
dreds of heads bent sidewise to catch his accents. He 
never, in after life, wdien famous as an advocate and 
orator, was a man of exordiums and perorations. Some 
simple preliminary matter, bearing directly upon the 
subject to be discussed, and then the case itself, and 


Fred’s argument. 


303 


when that was presented, he usually stopped rather 
than closed. 

When his voice was connectedly caught, he was say- 
ing something about law and its sacrcdness. “ Both 
parties were struggling for its supremacy, the State 
appealing to it for punishment, and he for protection ; 
and it was to be vindicated as an avenger or venerated 
as a protector, as the jury should find that certain facts 
existed or were doubtful. The most precious tiling 
to the law wms a human life ; the thing it most 
abhorred, a murderer. The earth was of consequence 
because of human existence upon it, and things became 
property only because they were man’s ; and as the life 
of a man was approached, things grew sacred, and its 
citadel was inviolable. As it was the gravest known 
crime to take life without law, so when the law, which 
held life to be so holy, was through mistake or care- 
lessness made the very means of violating, instead of 
jirotecting, it, the crime was immeasurably aggravated. 
The State demanded a punishment, and by the law 
was to establish with moral certainty that it was 
entitled to have it inflicted. The presumption tliat a 
man was innocent was not an idle formula, floating in 
the legal atmosphere, biit an impregnable barrier, 
assuring safety, until it was swept away by evidence, 
and then the defendant only fell by having the ground 
cut from under his feet. He was not to be convicted 
of a crime because he failed to prove his innocence. 
That was the reverse of the rule. It was not sufficient 
to accuse of murder, and then hang him if he failed to 
show where he was on a given night. Nor could he be 
called upon to account for a given thing until it was 


304 


THE PORTRAIT. 


shown that at some time, somewhere, sombocly else 
had held possession of it. A man, on sudden sur- 
prise, may equivocate, and not be guilty of murder ; 
and if folly is conclusive evidence of crime, how easy 
to find a criminal ! ” — with a glance at the State’s attor- 
ney. “It is a habit of the human mind, when aught 
occurs that it cannot at once understand, to attribute 
it to the supernatural, as it is its weakness to believe 
the most heinous charge without proof. It is only 
when it partly understands that it investigates, and 
demands evidence only in trivial cases. If this Jake 
was charged with a petty larceny from this man, still 
living, even the prosecuting attorney would have ascer- 
tained his innocence. But when the man fell from his 
horse in the night, he asks you to believe that Jake 
Green killed him.” These sentences, and man}^ more 
which at a grasp epitomized the case, were delivered in 
a happy manner, and with great force and energy, and 
shattered it ere the advocate had fully entered upon 
its discussion. 

“ The grand jury, by this indictment, accuse Jacob 
Green of killing Oliver Olney, in the county of Ma- 
honing, and is to prove each allegation without doubt 
or hesitation.” 

He then recalled the evidence, and said “ he believed 
that not a word of proof had been given to show that 
the scene of the death was within the limits of the 
county.” 

The prosecuting attorney started up, and said “he 
was certainly mistaken. He had proved it.” 

“If you have, you can tell by whom. If the gen- 
tlemen, or the court, or any member of the jury, can 


Fred’s argument. 


305 


recall a word of proof bearing on this formal and also 
material point, he would thank them to remind him of 
it.” 

Then he sat down for a moment. A whispering of 
the State’s counsel, and among the members of the 
court, with an overhauling of notes, was followed by 
silence. 

By the Court. — “What do you propose, Mr. War- 
den ? ” 

“ Merely to show that there is not even the form of 
a case here. I do not wish it to go off on this point. 
I will presume or admit for the defendant that the 
locus is within the limits of your county, gentlemen, 
that you may have the genuine satisfaction of saying, 
upon your oaths, that the defendant is innocent. He 
is* accused of the murder of Oliver Olney ; not a man 
whose name is to the jurors unknown — any man who 
may go by any name — but Oliver Olney; not some 
man whose body after death was, in the absence of all 
knowledge of the name he bore while living, called 
Oliver Olney ; but Oliver Olney himself, and not an- 
other, and no other was murdered. 

“If the court please, I make this point here, and 
have the authorities which I will cite.” 

The Court. — “It is not necessary, Mr. Warden ; the 
point is w^ell taken, and so the court will rule.” 

Resuming, — “ The theory of the State is that Oliver 
Olney, a native, and late a resident of this part of the 
State, was waylaid and murdered, and one man swears 
that he knew Olney in life ; that he saw this body, 
and thinks it was Oliver Olney, but it may have been 
20 


306 


THE PORTRAIT. 


his brother John ; while others heard the body called 
Oliver Olney’s body. 

“We proved by the State’s witness, Wanser, that 
the Oliver Olney was alive since this death occurred, 
and by half a dozen that he left Kirtland for Nauvoo. 
We prove him to have been five feet ten, while this 
body, by actual measurement, falls short of that by 
three inches, and the State three leagues of sustaining 
its case. This is not a formal matter, but one of vital 
substance. You are asked to say that this man was 
Oliver Olney, when not another man has said it, when 
six or seven say that he was not. You are asked to be 
certain in this point, when the one witness for the State 
is uncertain. You are asked to swear by your verdict 
that you know more than all the witnesses ; not only 
that, but that they are all wrong. Otherwise, this 
defendant must go acquit. I might rest this defence 
here, but will not. 

“ How came this bo<ly to be nobody, but a body. 
The State says, in this indictment, that Jake killed 
him by fracturing his skull with a bludgeon ; that he 
got himself suspended over the road with a war-club, 
and when the deceased rode along under him, he made 
a downward blow and crushed his skull. But my 
brother Mack, abandoning his two M.D.’s, assumes 
the equally pausible theory that the defendant scared 
him to death ; that, wanting to kill him' so as to rob 
him, he sprang up in his path and frightened his horse, 
so that mayhap he would turn and carry him out of his 
reach, but he happened to throw him and kill him ; and 
that then, while he had every reason to suppose that the 
body’s property was with or on it, he sprang into the 


Fred’s argument. 


307 


vacant saddle, without touching the body, and rode off ; 
and then having rode off, he prudently waited for a snow- 
storm, so that his tracks might certainly be seen, and 
then went tracking back, in the most sensible way in the 
world, to the very scene of his crime, for the very pur- 
pose, undoubtedly, of being suspected and detected. He 
has spoken of marvels, but failed to enumerate among 
them the most wonderful of all. We have proven 
that this man was not killed by a blow on the head ; 
that he never received a blow on any part of his per- 
son ; that he died of dislocation of the neck, which 
could be produced only by being thrown from his 
horse ; that he died where he fell, and lay untouched, 
and that there, in the darkness of the night, the heav- 
ens kindly distilled over him their pall of beautiful 
snow, placing their pure white seal upon him, to attest 
that the cause of his death was innocent ! ” 

This sentence was pronounced in a fervid manner, 
and produced a sensation. “Murdered? How? By 
whom? By a man who followed him on foot and 
would never have overtaken him, and would approach 
him from behind; by a man who intercepted him, — 
who knew that he would be there, and when. It was 
in a deep forest, ere the snow fell, and inky dark. 
Who would know him, or how would they know him ? 
Oh, gentlemen, the darkness of this case is palpable ! 
’Mid uncertainty and doubt you are expected to grope 
about in it, and seize and strangle this unfortunate 
defendant. Murdered? for what? Why was not the 
body searched and robbed? For a paper? Who knew 
that he had a paper? You are asked to assume 
that he had a paper, and tlien to assume that some- 


308 


THE PORTRAIT. 


body knew that he had ; that they knew he would 
pass this place at that hour, that they would know 
him, and that they could scare his horse, and that 
he would throw him off, and that that would break 
his neck. Then after having performed all these prob- 
able things the murderer would run off without touch- 
ing the body of his victim, on which the paper would 
probably be. A murderer would not have run the risk 
of a failure in any of these. He would have been 
armed with a gun or pistol ; he would have run no 
risk, he would have shot him — shot him on his horse 
— and then searched and robbed him. There is no 
pretence that he could have been robbed save by the 
further pretence that he had a document ; and in the 
utter absence of evidence that he had this document, 
you are to assume that he had it, that somebody knew 
that he had it, and that they wanted it, and their want 
was so imperious that they would commit a murder for it. 

“ Who was this man ? Nobody knows. Where did he 
come from? Nobody knows. Where was he going to? 
Nobody knows. Where did he get this paper ? Nobody 
knows. What was he to do with it? Nobody knows. 
Does anybody know that this body ever had that paper? 
No. What is this marvellous document, that anybody 
should want it? We are not told even that. Had it 
been of value, and pertinent to this case, the court 
would have laid it before you. It was ruled out as 
incompetent, irrelevant, impertinent, and yet it is the 
only point in the case. The only material thing in 
it was ruled out of it ; and yet we are to deal with it, 
and with nothing else. We are not to try this case on 
the evidence that we have, but on that which we have 


Fred’s argument. 


309 


not heard. What is this thing, this marvel of marvels, 
that winds all about us, and enfolds even the counsel 
for the defendant? Oh, gentlemen, there are some 
things that I have so wanted to know — ” This was a 
great cry of heart-anguish that uttered itself, that men 
who heard it never forgot. He rescued himself. “ We 
are told that it is a confession of murder, made fourteen 
years ago by the defendant’s father, and that the de- 
fendant murdered another man to get it ! AVhat did he 
want it for? Of what use could it be to him? What 
could he do with it? AVhat harm could it do his 
father? Ilis father was dead; the State has proven 
tliat, and he must have known it. 

“ But if it was of the fatal character claimed, then, 
indeed, the possession of it by Jake would of itself be 
suflicient, when surprised with it, to have caused him 
to speak in the suspicious manner that he did. But 
the gentleman demands, that Jake be compelled to ac- 
count for this, or that he go and hang 'for murder. 
Charge a man with murder, and, if he don’t prove him- 
self innocent, hang him ! By all means, gentlemen ! 
I would, were I you ! If I must still treat this thing, 
which is not a thing, as in the case when it is out, 
may I not inquire that as between Jake and an utterly 
unknown stranger, who, while on his way from no place 
to nowhere, fell into nothing, which of them would be 
the most likely to have a paper made by the father of 
Jake? 

“ Once and again, as nobody knew this man, and as 
Jake cannot be presumed to have known more of him 
than did others, how could he have known that the un- 
known had this or any paper? or that he ever was 


310 


THE PORTRAIT. 


alive, so that he could be murdered anywhere, at any 
time, by anybody? 

“Your Honors, on the matter of this document, as it 
was excluded, I ask you to say to the jury in your final 
charge that it is not and cannot be an item of proof 
that can in any way, for any purpose, be considered by 
the jury in forming any opinion upon any part of this 
case. And I also ask pardon for asking this instruc- 
tion.” 

By the Court. — “We will hear the other side on that 
proposition, if they think that they can combat your 
claim.” 

Resuming, — “ It is the theory of the theoretical gen- 
tleman that Jake followed this man from Nauvoo. It 
is not proven that this man ever was in Nauvoo, while 
it was proven that Jake had not been there for years. 
There w^as proof that this man, or some one who re- 
sembled him, was seen near Kirtland, and travelled 
along, and entered the wood from the west', at about 
dark ; but it is not proven that the man found was that 
man, or that the horse found was the horse which he 
rode ; nor yet that the dead man rode any horse ; nor 
that he was not travelling west, instead of east. But 
suppose he was the man, — if he was followed, who 
followed him? ‘Jake Green,’ answers the eloquent 
Mack, — but Jake Green came from the North, and 
could not have followed him. ‘ But it is the theory 
of the State,’ cries the gentleman, ‘ that several were 
concerned in it, — and, like the other assumings of the 
same high authority, there is not a particle of proof to 
sustain it. What became of the following man ? Jake 
was not seen with him ; had no concert or connection 


Fred’s argument. 


311 


with him ; did not know the man who died, nor where 
he was, or would be. He had business, as was shown ; 
was at Blair’s, and left there while it was snowing. The 
man was found on the bare ground, covered with snow, 
— with" snow as deep over him as on an adjoining log ; 
so that he must have been killed before the snow began 
to fall, and when Jake was five miles away, at the short- 
est distance ; and yet I am to argue that he did not 
kill this man, who was thrown from his horse several 
hours before Green, if he was driven forward by mur- 
derous malice, could by possibility have reached the 
place. 

“ When at Blair’s, he inrpiired his wav ; and the roads 
he travelled were pointed out to him, and he pursued 
them. The elements prove this. The attesting snow 
fell to receive and retain his track ; and it comes here 
a witness from the hand of God, an angel white-robed 
and pure, to declare that this charge is false and mon- 
strous.” A murmur, almost a break out of applause, 
followed these sentences. 

“ But w'e are told that Jake was somewhere that night, 
and was doing something. It did not take half his time 
to pass from Blair’s to the turn in the road, and make 
that turn where he did make it ; and you are asked to 
imagine that he filled the spare hours with wandering 
about that desolate and haunted wood, in the darkness 
of the night, a goblin damned, hunting up and wringing 
the necks of belated travellers, and galloping about stray 
horses with an extemporized troop of weird wizards, for 
the pure malice, the exquisite fun of the thing, and that, 
having gorged his maw with murder, he attaches his 
horse, elfin-like, to a root, a devil-snag from the world 


312 


THE PORTRAIT. 


below, and resumed bis man’s shape and journey, after 
having conjured down a snow to hide his victim and his 
guilt. 

“ ‘ Where was he ? ’ demands the gentleman. Sure 
enough, make the demand when you know that this 
indictment makes him a mute. Oh, gentlemen, in this 
rude wilderness world of uncharity and inhospitality — 
in our sparsely-populated forest country of straggling 
settlements and intervening wood — shall the belated, 
benighted traveller, whom weariness overwhelms, or 
sleep surprises, who sinks by the wayside, or slumbers 
under a tree, chilled, benumbed, and alone, while you, 
whom God blesses with hearths and homes, and whom 
He permits wives to love, and to whom He gives chil- 
dren to caress, lie secure in the circling arms of safety 
and peace, — shall the forlorn outcast be compelled to 
account for every moment of time so endured, at the 
peril of being hanged for any accidental death that 
may occur within five miles of him ? ” These sentences 
were delivered with intense warmth and force, and were 
greeted with sobs from the ladies. The words “ whom 
he permits wives to love,” was a wailing cry of a lonely 
heart coming out of stormy night. 

“ Here I leave this case. I have invoked the law for 
this man’s protection. I have called time and space 
and the elements, and all declare his innocence, which 
your verdict will echo and record. 

“ Wonder and astonishment has been expressed that 
of all men I am here as this man’s advocate. This 
man is my enemy, — the son of my oldest and bitterest 
enemy, you have been told. It is because he was my 
enemy that I am here, . This message, holy as from 


Fred’s argument. 


313 


God, and mysterious, as if by inspiration came to me, 
in my far-off — not home, — I have none : ‘ Jake Green, 
your old enemy, is in jail for murder ; he is without 
money, without counsel, without friends.’ Bless, a 
thousand times, the angel who sent me that message. 
I hope yet to kneel and kiss the hand that wrote it. 
It w^as a summons from Heaven, — the call of calls. 
He was mine enemy, of all mortals having the strong- 
est claim upon me. And had his father murdered mine, 
and broken the heart of my mother, and cast me to 
die by the wayside, I would, as I did, have obeyed it. 
Through the rifts of eighteen hundred years of time, I 
heard the voice of the Beautiful One — the peasant- 
born, who walked the lovely valleys of far-off Galilee — 
commanding me to love this mine enemy. He was an 
hungered, with none to feed ; naked, with none to 
clothe ; sick, with none to minister ; in prison, and 
none to visit him. And I came ; and I come to you, 
and lay him and his case in the sustaining hands and 
charities of the law upon your consciences, my Coun- 
trymen, Gentlemen of the Jury.” And he sat down. 

Not a whisper save his voice, and the occasional 
signs of applause mentioned, had broken the rapt 
silence for the hour and a half he was speaking ; and 
when he ceased a low murmur arose, grew louder and 
louder, until the aroused court and sheriff united to 
quell and hush it, and save the propriety of the place. 
Tlie above, extracted from the columns of a paper of 
that day, gives most of the argument, with some of the 
language employed, which is inserted at the hazard of 
producing an erroneous impression as to the speech, as 
a whole. Fred was then in the opening flush of his 


314 


THE PORTRAIT. 


rare powers as a speaker, and just awakening to the 
consciousness of strength, without knowing its extent, 
than which, in this world, nothing is more intoxicating. 
He was perfect master of himself, and spoke in a 
presence and under circumstances calculated to call 
out his best. He arose with his audience in his hand, 
and carried it whither he would ; with his eyes never 
from the jury, save when he addressed the court, he 
seemed unconscious that another human being was 
present. No attempt has been made to reproduce the 
speech. It was a little marred by strokes of sarcasm, 
but free from redundancy, with here and there a touch 
of nature which was irresistible. 

Fred closed at about five, and the court directed the 
State to proceed with the reply. The original pro- 
gramme of that side was, that the prosecuting attorney 
should open the case at the commencement, and that 
Mack should open the argument, while Brown made 
the final reply. For some reason this was abandoned, 
and the prosecuting attorney undertook that rather 
unpromising labor. It was the scattered pattering of 
rain-drops, after the hurricane had swept the forest 
and the bolts had fallen. As he went forward, many 
went out. He became disconcerted, confused and in- 
effective. He finally fell back upon his written open- 
ing, under which he partly recovered, but closed before 
the usual hour of adjourning, amid a thinning out, rest- 
less and weary audience. 

The court held an evening session, when Judge New- 
ton, in a clear, luminous, and decisive charge, sub- 
stantially relieved the jury of the little labor which the 
defence had left for them. They retired before eight, 


Fred’s argument. 


315 


and returned after an absence of twenty minutes ; were 
called and counted, and when inquired of as to their 
verdict, shouted altogether, “ Not Guilty ! ” A move- 
ment of the vast audience, and then a round of 
applause with clapping and cheers. Silence was re- 
stored, when the court ordered the prisoner to be dis- 
charged, and adjourned. While he still sat a moment, 
bewildered, an aged woman, who had for a day or two 
been observed about the court-house, and whom no- 
body knew, pushed through the noisy crowd, sprang to 
Jake, and threw her arms about his neck. It was Aunt 
Sally. 

There was a general turning and movement towards 
the trial-table where Fred had sat, to congratulate 
him ; but in some mysterious way he had disappeared. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 


AUNT SALLY. 



LONE, moneyless, with her bundle, and a little 


bent with years, but plenty of warmth in a heart 
early withered, but refreshed. Aunt Sally, unable to 
secure a passage down the river, turned from the chilly 
Mississippi to face a winter journey across Illinois, 
Indiana, and nearly the whole of Ohio, in the sole 
hope of again seeing Fred, and for the one purpose of 
aiding him, so far as she might, in penetrating the 
mystery of his birth and history. As stated, she was 
absent from her North Carolina home when the inci- 
dents of Fred’s infancy occurred there, and it was only 
at the death of her brother that she reached a clear 
conception of the facts ; and then he managed to 
escape out of the world, bearing with him the name of 
Fred’s father, the importance of which the shrewd 
Sally quite appreciated, and wdiich she hoped might be 
in the knowledge of Sam Warden. She had no very 
definite idea of the distance to be travelled, or of*the 
difficulties, privations, and long-continued, wearing 
labor of the way. Fred was the one warmth, hope and 
cheer of her life. How large, and strong, and hand- 
some he must be now ! She could not think of him 
save as the tall, grave-faced, beautiful boy she had 


( 316 ) 


AUNT SALLY. 


317 


parted with now so many years ago ; and he must be a 
man. She had once in a long while heard a word or 
rumor of him, and he must be in Ohio, somewhere 
about Mantua. Then she wondered what he would 
say; wouldn’t he be so glad to see her? lie would 
never forget her. Perliaps he was married. What an 
idea, — little Fred with a wife! She did not at all 
wonder that he had not come to see her. Of course, he 
would never go near the saints ; they might murder 
him. So she thought, and mused, and croned over and 
over, in her lonely old heart, her old woman’s dreams, 
memories and visions of Fred. The roads were deep 
and soft, and often long stretches of desolate, inter- 
minable, black, tenacious mud stretched over the 
dreary, flat expanse of empty prairie which lay be- 
tween the remote farm-houses. Sometimes she went 
astray ; some days she made not more than a mile or 
two, and some, she was so weary, sick and sore, that 
she could not move at all ; and one night she spent on 
the lonely, blank prairie. She was often hungry, many 
times drenched with rains, — chilled and benumbed. 
All along, at the farm-houses, she was kindly received, 
warmed and fed, and cheered on her way. Men 
wondered at her courage and hardihood; women, who 
understood it, honored her devotion, and w^ept over her 
sufferings, and little children gazed at the wrinkled 
face and gray hair, lit up with the large bright eyes, as 
something weird and uncanny. So across the muddy, 
spongy Illinois, into and across fair wooded Indiana, 
and over the intervening parts of beautiful and culti- 
vated Ohio, the lonely old woman journeyed. Twice 
she was detained by illness for two or three weeks, 


318 


THE PORTRAIT. 


and once by lameness, that threatened to prevent her 
journey. She traversed the southern sections of the 
States, and reached Cincinnati before mid May. The 
roads were now good and the weather fine, and hope- 
fully she set her face to the North. 

At near nightfall, on one of the afternoons of an 
early June day, Turner observed in front of his hotel 
an old woman, tall and gaunt, gray and grim, soiled 
and travel-stained, supporting herself on a long staff, 
with thin and tattered garments, and an old, worn, 
quilted hood, from which her long, gray elfin locks 
escaped in tangled rope-like masses. She stood in 
front of his house, looking about as if lost and be- 
wildered. He approached, and kindly accosted her. 
She started a little at his voice, and looked sharply 
into his kindly blue eyes. “Is this the Corners? I 
otter know ; but it’s a long wile sin’ I seen ’em.” 

“ These are the Corners,” replied Lewis. 

“Are ye Lewis Turner? I tho’t I knowd ye. I 
allow ye’ve forgot me ? ” turning full upon him. “ I’m 
her as was Sally Green in these parts.” 

“ Sally Green ! Aunt Sally ! I’m surprised. AVhy 
we thought you must be dead. Your brother’s dead, 
ain’t he?” 

“Yes, and I’ve come back all the way ter find Fred. 
Ye knew Fred? ” 

“ I guess I did. Come in. Aunt Sally, and let me 
care for you.” * 

“ I’ve got no money ; nary cent.” 

“ That makes no difference,” said the kind-hearted 
landlord. 

Washed cleanly, and decenlly clothed. Aunt Sally 


AUNT SALLY. 


319 


learned with astonishment that Jake was then on his 
trial for murder, and that Fred was defending him. 

“Wal! wal! wal ! that beats all nater ! Jake was 
alius a ’ard case. I’m not much ’stonished at it ; but 
Fred ! An’ Fred’s a law3’^er ! an’ a tall, ’ansom man, 1 
know. Wal! wal! wal! Poor Jake! he w^as a purly 
bab}' ; an’ his mother, ’ad she a’ lived — ” and a flood of 
old time memories of the life among the mountains 
came over her with a stir of tenderness for Jake, on 
trial for his life, and thought to be guilt}-, though the 
Mantua people had a strong faith that Fred would 
clear him. She found that it was thought strange that 
he had undertaken the defence. She was also told 
that Sam Warden had just returned from Missouri, and 
had been taken over to Canfield, and that many in- 
quiries had been made about her. Some parties from 
Newton Falls or Warren had in some way been inter- 
ested in making inquiries among some of the Mantua 
people about Fred and her brother, and about her, and 
they wanted her. On consultation between Turner 
and Uncle Bill, it was thought that Aunt Sally, who 
had at once determined to go to Canfield, should be 
sent over. Her fare was paid on the stage, and she 
was furnished with money and a few necessaries, and 
on the day after her arrival she was on her way to 
Canfield. 

She reached there the next morning, with a letter 
from Turner to the landlord of the stage-house, w^ho 
found her a place with a poor woman, and as soon as 
she received her breakfast, she hurried oflf to the 
crowded court-house. Accustomed to crowds of men, 
she pushed her way into the court-room, and caught a 


320 


TDE PORTRAIT. 


momentary glimpse of Fred, as be arose to say 3 word 
to the court. Befo^'C he sat down, he turned an instant 
fully toTM*.rds her, and that was Fred! How like a 
beautifi’ ''.ngel ho beamed upon her I All the misery 
of her ^eary w/Ater journey seemed a small price. 
What / pricekrB boon to an aged and solitary crone is 
a 3’our^ man npon whom she can expend the hoarded 
sweets of yrr /.fan’s measureless love for man — moth- 
erlj^, sisW/lj, womanl}^ — a great stream mingled of 
all, and pui>e m all ! 

At the recess of the court Aunt Sally remained in- 
side, secured a more favorable position, and heard all 
the argument. As the case was put together against 
Jake, her attention was called to him, worn, pale, 
sulky and cowering. He sat, enduring as he might, 
and as she looked she pitied him — solitary, friend- 
less, and poor, with her blood — a child of her girlish 
friend. She found that she still had a place in her 
heart for him. 

AVTien Fred arose, she knew that all that could be 
said would be urged, and she somehow felt that Jake 
would be saved. Her long sojourn among the Mormon 
leaders had familiarized her with the idea of courts and 
law3^ers. Vaguel}" it came to her, the relation of these 
parties to each other. This Fred, the cheated and out- 
raged child, standing here and defending the son of 
him who had so injured him for his life, and that son 
his old malignant eneni}" ! 

As if, in some dark wa}', John Green had foreseen 
the strait to which his own child would be brought, and 
had taken this infant, and b}^ black charm and spell had 
bound him to a strange wa}' and life, so that he should 


AUNT SALLY. 


821 


finally serve Jake in his hour of need. She felt that 
the over-ruling hand of God, or some nearly equal 
power, that usuall^^ had its way, had shaped it all ; 
that Jake would be saved, and the glory should be 
Fred’s ; and as something of this, shadowy and elfin- 
like, passed darkly before her vision, Jake grew upon 
her tenderness. How proud she was of Fred ! What 
^ &^c>ry that he should come here, and push other men 
out of the way, and command and subdue men and 
women, judges and lawyers, rooted in no home, and 
standing on no hearth ! As she looked and listened, she 
lost the meaning of his words ; the sound of his rich 
and full voice became a heavenly melodj^ to her, and 
his face and form expanded and towered up, and were 
transfigured. Thus wrapt and enchanted, she watched 
and worshipped till he sat down, and the enchantment 
was broken. She watched him, and placed herself 
anear as he passed out ; but he did not turn toward 
her, nor did she feel chillerd that he did not. She knew 
that he would turn to her, and perhaps let her kiss his 
hand, when this was over, and she was content. She 
went out and came in, and was there in her place and 
Tvaited ; she saw the light and glory pass out from 
Fred’s face, and knew that he was weary and worn, 
and needed rest and comfort. Then more and more 
Jake grew on her kindness ; and when the final words 
of the jury were pronounced, and the whirlwind of 
applause swept through the court-room and subsided, 
she pushed forward, but Fred had disappeared. She 
got near Jake, and when, in the hush that came, the 
court announced his freedom, she called him by name ; 

21 


322 


THE PORTRAIT. 


lie turned and recognized her, burst into tears, and 
was clasped in her arms. 

After the disappearance of Fred, Jake was the prin- 
cipal object of interest, and the crowd and jury pressed 
about him eagerl}", congratulating him upon his ac- 
quittal, and becoming immediately interested in Aunt 
Sail}', whose sudden appearance upon the scene at this 
final moment had the charm of old romance about it, 
and invested her with much importance. She was 
at first supposed to be his mother, but when it became 
known that she was Aunt Sally, who had nursed and 
cared for Fred, the interest became warm and general, 
— for in some way the outline of Fred’s history had 
become as well known in Canfield as in Mantua. Jake 
and his aunt were attended by a numerous procession 
to her humble quarters, after which the peopl’e pro- 
ceeded to Fred’s hotel, to call him out and cheer him. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 


. AFTER. 

W ERE it not often tlie cruelest, it would some- 
times be the funniest thing in the world, could 
we see how blindly, and perhaps blissfull3^, men sport 
with their own fortunes, or the elements of their own 
fate ; ga3dy and wantonl3^ toying with, picking up and 
throwing down, running after and casting away as 
bubbles or trifles the factors of fates, the clews to for- 
tunes, the ke\"s to m3"steries dearer to them than life. 

Here was this 3"outh, but a moment ago, holding in 
his hand, refusing to open and read it, strenuously 
struggling against its being read, arguing against and' 
invoking authority to prevent his hearing what had 
shaped his life and pointed its destiny, and which 
would, at once and forever, have dissipated the name- 
less shadow in which he grew up, — have dissolved the 
invisible but potent chain that had so hopelessly bound 
him. Yet with what an air he cast the oracle down, 
never so glad -as when it went back to silence and 
darkness, and left him to gnaw at his chain in the old 
shadow ! Like Pol3"phemus, strong, but blind, he re- 
pelled it all for the sake of a sordid wretch, whose 
whole carcase, heart and soul thrown in, was not worth 
the idlest wish his advocate had ever breathed. 

( 323 ) 


/ 


324 THE PORTRAIT. 

He had spoken in a sort of mental ‘exaltation, such 
as usually accompanies the successful exercise of the 
best powers of a fine speaker of fervid feelings ; quick- 
\ ened, as w^e have seen, by the inspiring presence of 
Belle, yet ballasted with the weight and gravity" of the 
occasion ; not strong and indignant, as when on the 
platform, but softened, elevated, exalted, with a little 
touch of pathos running through his tone, that went at 
once to the fountains of feeling and sympath}^ of his 
hearers. 

When he sat down, he dropped from the upper atmo- 
sphere again to earth, and when, in the flattering ele- 
ments of threatened applause, he ventured to look 
again to the place filled by Belle, it was emptj’ ; nor 
could he catch a fiutter of the vanishing draper3\ He 
avoided the press as much as he could, and came back 
to the evening session anxious for nothing but the ter- 
mination of the case, the result of which no longer 
remained doubtful. If it did not run into the. night, he 
had formed the purpose of leaving Canfield that evening, 
and escaping from a presence that had so haunted him. 
He took occasion, while the juiy were out, to have a few 
words with Jake, to whom he also gave nearly all the 
small amount of money he had ; and when the verdict 
was announced, after a word to his associate, he 
escaped, during the tumult that followed, b}^ a near 
side-door, down a private stairway* and out into the open 
air, with heart and brain, mind and soul, bod^^ and 
limbs crushed into a weary, broken mass, with the one 
relief, — escape. * 

It was a wondrous 3'oung summer night, with a full 
moon struggling with low, running clouds, and a lively 


AFTfiR. 


S25 

air moving and rustling the maturing foliage of the 
numerous trees in little plashy waves about him. He 
hurried across a corner of the common to a narrow lane, 
which led to a beautiful maple wood, whose green tops 
had been beckoning to him ever since his arrival in the 
village. He walked rapidly, almost running, until he 
passed the straggling houses and cottages of the town, 
and found himself on the soft turf under the massive 
old trees, whose darkness promised a wood of some 
extent. The strain that had been on him was suddenly 
removed, and the burden which had weighted even 
his sleeping hours had dropped from him ; he felt 
the relieving sense of work done, a task achieved, 
which is one of the rewards of labor. But as he fell 
back from the height of his great struggle to his old 
self, there were no sweet associations of tenderness and 
love to strew and brighten his triumph, or cheer and 
solace his weary spirit, or sustain an exhausted phys- 
ical frame. What inattered it, save to the miserable 
Jake, of whom he could think of no commendatory 
word to sa}^, even in his defence, whether he had failed 
or succeeded? What eye would grow bright, and what 
voice grow soft? And Belle — the inscrutable, m3^ste- 
rious Belle, who came to inspire and help — pshaw ! not 
to help him, — at least, not for his sake, but only 
for the sake of the cause it was his fortune to 
advocate. But what under heavens was there in this 
case, the fortunes or fate of this Jake, to interest her? 
It must be something connected with her journey 
to Nauvoo, — and that journey might account for 
her absence from Martha’s wedding. 

How cool and sweet the shadow of the wood was ; 


326 


THE portrait. 


how glad he was to get away from the crowd, and how 
restful to throw himself upon the ground and kick his 
limbs out! This Belle, — of course she knew her 
power over him ; perhaps it pleased her to exercise 
it, and he hated and despised himself as a great feeble 
mooing calf, that he had so abjectly abased himself in 
the dust at her feet, and without daring to raise 
his eyes to hers, had only asked that he need not be 
compelled to avoid her, if accident threw him into her 
presence. And he mentally swore, out there on the 
ground under the trees, that he never would go into 
her presence again ; and he was glad that he had, 
in the coldest way in the world, merely acknowledged 
her presence when he last met her. He remembered 
with . pleasure that he had only stared at her once that 
afternoon. Lord ! what a look he received from her ! 
What an incorrigible fool he was — an ass, a very — 
ass ; and he smote the ground with his heel in self 
scorn. “What ears I must have ” — reaching out his 
hands — “ and there arc other asses — hear them bray,^* 
as a shout like a cheer, and still another, reached him. 
“ Let them cheer, — the damned fools I Lord, how they 
opened these same mouths to-da}’- ! What a contempt 
a man feels for men, when he has seen them bobbing 
and ducking about him. What are they worth? and 
to think that this race should think that they were of 
consequence enough to have God come down out of 
heaven for them, — save them, as it is called, and 
^ven He couldn’t do it, so folks say. That was too 
much for even omnipotence.’’ There was a star, just 
then, as the leaves flew aside. “ Let me raise one of 
my long ears and brush them out of the way, — make 


AFTER. 


32'J 


them useful.” Then he rose and followed the path 
deeper into the wood, trying now to collect and crys- 
tallize his thoughts, and ashamed of his own weak- 
ness. But he had been too profoundly stirred to recover 
himself, and linalty the darkening sk}-, and rain patter- 
ing on the leaves, admonished him to make his way back. 
The crowd had dispersed, and most of the houses were 
darkened when he reached his hotel, which was still 
open, but quiet, and he went at once to his room. 

He found it lighted, with Aunt Warren in it, anx- 
iously waiting his return. She was an elderly spinster, 
almost criminally plain, whose unblessed, lonel}" life 
had been spent in other peoples’ houses, and for their 
comfort and convenience. Not without character was 
she, and full of womanly kindness. She was a sort of 
cousin of the landlord, who gave her a home, and 
received in return the labor, care and fidelity of three 
or four servants. She had taken at once to Fred, and 
had made his comforts and wants her special care. 
The only fault she found with him was that he wanted 
too little — would not have much done for him — was 
not a man to be pampered and petted. So towards 
the close of his nearly two weeks’ stay, they were very 
old and good friends. She was immensely relieved 
when he came in, but was struck with his worn and 
jaded air. 

‘‘ Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come ! Nobody knew what 
had become o’ you. There’s been everybody to inquire 
after you.' The whole crowd came and called for you,# 
and w^anted you should make ’em a speech, and they 
give ye three cheers.” 

“ I heard the noise,” with the utmost indifference ; 


328 


THE PORTRAIT. 


and seating himself by an open window, he thrust his 
feet and hands out into the falling rain. 

“ Oh, 5mu mustn’t ! ” exclaimed the alarmed Warren, 
“you’ll ketch cold and fussing about until she got 
him to pull himself in, she closed the window. 

“Do you know whether Jake — Jake Green — has 
been here this evening ? ” 

“The man you cleared? Oh, he was here, and his 
aunt with him.” 

“How? What ?” springing up ; “his aunt? Aunt 
Sally?” with vivacity. 

“Yes; that was her name, — an old, gray woman, 
come all the way from Nauvoo.” 

“When was she here? Where is she now? Oh, I 
must see her now, — at once ! ” 

“You can’t to-night ; she’s gone into the country 
somewhere, — she an’ Jake. They came to see you, 
and she asked everything about you ; said she hadn’t 
seen ye for mor’n twelve year.” 

“ It’s strange ! ” said Fred, sitting down wearily. 
“ Did they start back to Mantua? ” 

“No; somebody took ’em home with ’em. Jake 
is a great lion. I wish you’d been here.” 

“I’m glad I wasn’t, — no, not glad, for I missed 
Aunt Sally. Old Aunt Sally, then, is alive, and came 
all the way — a thousand miles — to see me ! ” with a 
softened voice. “ She must be quite old and poor. 
Aunt Warren, she is the only thing on this earth who 
^ver loved me that was permitted to live, and 'it would 
have killed her if she hadn’t been old and tough,” 
— sharply and bitterl}^ 

“Don’t say that, — don’t say that,” — brightly and 


AFTER. 


329 


“There is one of the sweetest and most beau- 
tiful young ladies in the world, who will give her eyes 
for you in a minute.” 

“Oh, Aunt Warren” — without the slightest light- 
ing up of his face — “it's pleasant for you to banter 
me ; but don’t to-night.” 

“You’ll see, 3"ou’ll see ! an’ so ’ll everybody.” 

“ Aunt, I shall go in the morning, and I shall be 
really sorry to part with 3^011. Have 3^011 any friends, 
relatives, or home, except this ? ” 

“No. I’ve always been nobody. My father an’ 
mother died before I can remember, and I had no 
brothers or sisters, uncles or aunts. I never had no 
chance in the world, and have alwa3’s lived and worked 
for others.” She said this uncomplainingly, but a little 
sadl3^ 

Fred felt a pang of self-reproach at his unmanly 
repining. He, a healthy young man, full of strength, 
and, as he now knew, of power, to run off in a fit of 
spleen into the woods, and kick the ground in angry 
discontent, and curse men ; and because — after all — 
because a woman scorned him, while here was this 
woman who had never known heart, home or love, and 
3^et was toiling on cheerfully. 

“ Aunt Warren, I’m weary of boarding in a hotel, — 
of having no home. I will scrape together a little 
money and buy a little cottage, under some trees, and 
buy a cow, and you and Aunt Sall3^ shall live with me. 
She is old, and shall milk the cow and feed the pigs, 
and you shall keep the house, and we’ll have a very* 
pleasant time of it.” 

“ Yes, we will. Oh, if you’d seen and hearn what I 


330 


THE PORTRAIT. 


did, you’d never think of an}" old aunt again. I wish 
I knew what had happened,” — a pause; “you didn’t 
eat any supper, — let me bring you something.” 

“Not a thing.” 

“ Not a glass of milk? ” 

“ No, thaiik you.” 

“ What will you have for breakfast ? ” 

“Breakfast? Good Lord ! I sha’n’t want any.” 

“ Then go to bed. Have sweet, sweet dreams, and 
get up and feel better. Good-night.” 

The mind of the oung man was healthy ; only when it 
was stirred up as it had recently been was it that he felt 
to murmur, and now the thought of this faithful, patient 
woman came in as the needed agent, that precipitated 
the bitter and staining, matter to the bottom. He sat 
long by the window listening to the soothing plash of 
the rain against the building, and raised the casement 
to hear its patter and drip among the leaves ; then 
removing his clothes, laid himself down under its 
drowsy influence. Wearied almost bej-ond endurance, 
his benumbing memoiy could not retain the impres- 
sions of the liberated faculties, and oblivion finally 
came. The last that he remembered, he was lying 
under the trees on the grass, partly asleep, and was 
aroused by a slight sensation about one ear, and turn- 
ing his head, saw Belle sitting near him with a clover 
blossom in her hand, and blushing with arch innocence. 

He awoke in the morning to find himself really 
down on the hard, bruising facts of life, with nothing to 
buoy him up, or relieve the aches and miseries of his 
position. On trying to arise, he discovered that he 
was weak and sore. His right arm was almost immov- 


AFTER. 


331 


able, stiffened by the force and energy of his gestures 
of the day before. He had been unable to eat his 
usual food, and had taken but little sustenance, and he 
was languid and dizzy. He approached the window^ 
to find the rain still falling, and when he turned with- 
in, everything was dark and hopeless. Like a gallant 
bark, which, storm-tossed, had found shelter for the 
night in a land-locked bay, and whose mariners in the 
morning found while they slept the waters had sub- 
sided, and theii* ship lay broken and bruised upon the 
impaling points of rocks. He was obliged to exert 
himself, he dressed, and went down to breakfast. 
The hotel was still crowded, and men and ladies came 
admiringly about to congratulate him, and sympathize 
with his apparent illness. He answered gayly he knew 
not what, and what he said was almost cheered. He 
tried to eat, and could not. He drank a glass of water, 
and went back to his room to arrange for his departure. 
He wanted to go by private carriage to AV'arren, where 
he would take the stage. He made inquiries for Jake 
and Sally, and was told that they left the night before. 
He thought he would get over to Mantua, where he 
would find Aunt Sally ; would go over to the Carmans 
and rest, and visit the Rapids, which somehow had 
a fascinating interest for him. 

It still rained, and as he went back to his room he 
lemembered that he had not more than ten dollars of 
money, not half enough to pay his bill, to say nothing 
of hiring a carriage. Strange to say, he had not yet 
learned the value of money, and knew no mortal of 
whom he could borrow a dollar. He sat down in a 
listless way, staring out into the still falling rain, 


332 


THE PORTRAIT. 


without the power of being soothed by it, and worse 
beaten than he ever remembered to have been. 

How long he sat he did not know or care ; it was so 
much of time to be gotten over. He was in a sort of 
cold, aching stupor. At some time came a little knock, 
and the patter of Aunt Warren’s feet. She came 
immediately up to him, and handed him an envelope, 
addressed in a lady’s hand, wholly unknown to him. 
He took it listlessly, and looked at it with the utmost 
indifference. 

“ Open it,” said Aunt Warren. He did so, and read : 

“ Dear Fred, — 

‘‘ Will 3"ou come to me at once? 

“ Belle.” 

One moment of stupid surprise, when the light and 
hope of heaven came into his heart and flashed through 
his frame ; he sprang to his feet, and turned to Aunt 
Warren, with a great, eager interrogation in his eyes. 

“ There is a gentleman below wants to see — oh, 
I’m so glad ! ” 

Half dazed, and as if in a dream, Fred followed 
Aunt Warren below, and was met by Mr. Marbury, 
whom he remembered to have seen each day about the 
court-house, and seemingly with Wansor, on the other 
side of the case. He came forward with the most cor- 
dial warmth to Fred, and held out both his hands. 
“ Let me congratulate you, which I do with my whole 
heart and soul. I have a carriage here, and trust I 
am to carry you to Mr. Morris’s, where your presence 
will give the greatest pleasure, and a good deal more, 
— I think I ought to say ! ” 


AFTER. 


333 


“Mr. Marbury, this unexpected kindness takes me 
by surprise, and I have no pleasure in the worl^ but to 
go with you.” 

“My dear sir, surprises rule these da3^s, and I trust 
that none but pleasant ones await 3'Ou.” 

Fred packed his valise- — punched things into it — 
found his bill paid, gave his last ten dollars to Aunt 
Warren, entered the carriage, and was driven rapidly 
towards Newton Falls. The clouds had broken,— 
laughing fields of glorious sky appeared 'mid the 
clearing heavens, and looked down with, “ Dear Fred, 
will you come to me ? Belle.” “ Dear Fred, will you 
come to me?” sparkled in the sun; “will 3’ou come 
to me?” glittered in the bright drops; “will 3’ou 
come to me ? ” from the birds, the grass and the trees, 
from everj’thihg and everywhere. 

What was it, — what could it — could it — mean? 
And for a moment the impossible seemed plausible and 
probable. But his mind soon returned to its healthier 
tone of the real and possible. Marbuiy was at first 
disposed to be conversational. He soon found that the 
young man, however brilliant as an orator, and logical 
and eloquent as an advocate, was neither a happy con- 
versationalist, nor, although silent, a very brilliant 
listener, as with a bright smile he treasured up some 
of his wildest answers, possibly" for Belle’s delecta- 
tion. It seemed to him that whatever was his usual 
frame of mind, — that of a sparkling June morning, 
after a rain, and the day after the close of an impor- 
tant trial, and while going to meet his possible lady- 
love, alone with another, a middle-aged man, he was 
slightl}’ preoccupied ; and he found abundant emploj- 


334 


THE PORTRAIT. 


ment in furtive glances at his companion’s face, and 
guessing at his probable thoughts. But we’ll leave the 
speculative Marburj the full monopoly of his gather- 
ings, and if he should happen to get off a noticeable 
thing, we will give him the benefit of our circulation. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 


THE PORTRAIT AGAIN. 



VER the Morris mansion, somehow, was an air of 


Vy rather anxious expectation. Belle arose quite 
early. I’m sorry to say, that this had been the pre- 
vailing tone for some time. Her face had a sweet look 
of exultation. She did not sit much, or stand at ease, 
or busy herself with any particular thing ; nor did she 
talk, or seem anxious for the society of others. But 
something like being in readiness for some very unusual 
and grave thing which was approaching ; something 
that had been labored for, longed for, — that might 
have never happened, but which seemed certainly ap- 
proaching, — the present was already tremulous with its 
vibratory nearness. She was not at all serene ; many 
long breaths, not to say sighs, would come, and would 
not bring relief; and once or twice she clasped her 
hands as in deep mental prayer. It rained, and would 
rain. She finallj", very quietly, but decidedl}^, ordered 
the carriage to move olf for Canfield, and prettj’ soon 
wondered whether it had reached the hotel, and had 
Fred received her note, and how did he look, and what 
would he say, — would he come ? “ Dear Fred, will you 
come?” “ Dear Fred ! ” surely she might say that to 


( 335 ) 


336 


TfiE EOiiTtlAit. 


him. Didn’t he deserve that ? She had hesitated over 
it — that “ dear” — and now she thought of it without 
a blush. Then she went to her marvellous room, half 
drawing-room, half boudoir, and several other sweet 
places all on the ground-floor, in a wing, among the 
three rooms devoted to her use. There she changed 
the position of a full-length portrait, with reference to 
the light, and had a hiirried conversation with Maud ; 
and stepped to one of her inner rooms and talked with 
some one, a lady — the voice indicated — there, and as 
she came out, the voice said, “ Don’t fear me, I saw him 
yesterday", and neither fainted nor shrieked.” Then 
she went out and looked ; then the rain ceased and the 
clouds parted and began to clear, and she looked again. 
It grew toward noon ; something had happened, and 
then over the rise of ground came the little fast-step- 
ping “ post-boys,” their bay coats steaming ; the top 
of the carriage was thrown back, and two gentlemen 
were on the cushions. They turned in at the gate and 
swept around the circling drive to the front piazza ; the 
world turned also, and more rapidly, and the next mo- 
ment the most charming, self-collected, perfect woman 
of society stood cool and alone, as if to receive an or- 
dinary morning caller. She did not mean to meet him 
as an ordinary morning caller, by any means ; and 
w'hen he sprang w ith his wondering face from the car- 
riage — which drove off — she stepped eagerly forward 
and extended her hands to him. He took them, and 
could not utter a word. 

‘‘ I’m so glad j’ou’ve come ! ” in the sweetest of little 
voices. 

“ Oh, Belle, — Mrs. lYilliams ! ” 


THE PORTRAIT AGAIN. 337 

“ Belle, — call me Belle ; all who love me call me 
Belle,” in the same sweet voice. 

“ Love you, — I adore you ! I — ” 

“ Hush ! ” in a low’er voice. “You have already told 
me that, and I believe it,” with a wondrous sweet 
suffusion on her face. “ Let us speak of some other 
things,” and she led him forward along the veranda, 
towards her domain. “You look thin and worn. I 
hope you’ve not suffered, and 3’ou will rest now. Oh, 
Fred ! do j^ou know we were in raptures with yon 
j'esterda}^ ? ” — what a change in the subject ! Her arm 
was in his, although she had withdrawn her hands after 
the first pressure. “ Dear Fred ” was only a dear 
friend, after all, as he knew the moment his thoughts 
came back to him. “ Let me invite 3’ou to m3" parlor. 
I left Maud there a moment ago,” and Maud left 
it the moment after, as she was told to do. They 
entered, and Belle motioned him to a seat which hap- 
pened to command, in an admirable light, the portrait 
she had adjusted just before. 

As Fred paused, bewildered with everything, and 
especially bewildered with the supreme loveliness of 
Belle, never so ethereally and spirituallj’' beautiful as 
now, he saw the portrait. His e3"es dilated, amaze- 
ment came into his face. He lifted his hands, recoiled, 
as if from a blow, took a step forward, and stood 
speechless ; for there, complete and perfect in form,. face, 
color, air, and feature, looking him mockingl}^ in the 
e3"e, was his exact image, his counterfeit very self, and 
he thought it would speak. The color left his face, a 
tremor shook his frame, and clasping his hands, with a 
22 


338 


TfiE PORTRAIT. 


low crushed out voice, “ My God, my God, who is this, 
Belle ? ” with an imploring look. 

She came to his side, and laid her hand on his arm. 

“ Dont 3'ou know? Does not sometliing tell 3^011 who 
this was ? ” 

“ My father ! M3" father ! God in heaven ! My 

father ! ” and clasping his hands, he dropped on his 
knees before it, while a great rush of feeling swept over 
and through him. “ I see here ” — with a voice grad- 
uall3" sinking to a wliisper — “ the form and face of m3" 
father.” Sobs shook him convulsivel3' ; and rising and 
stepping nearer, lie reverentty bent his head and placed 
hi^ lips upon one of the hands ; then turning to the 
sobbing girl at his side, “And he is dead?” 

“ He died in 3"our infanc3".” 

A pause. 

“Belle, Belle, I implore 3^ou, — can 3^ou tell me of 
m3’ mother ? can 3’0ii show me her image ? ” 

“ I can.” She pushed open a door, and there walked 
into the presence of the more amazed Fred the beau- 
tiful, but now fearfully agitated matron who had at- 
tended Belle in the court-room. Had a spirit risen at 
the invocation of Belle, and assumed flesh and raiment, 
Fred could not have been more amazed. “Are — are 
3''Ou m3’ mother ? ” 

“I am 3’our mother ! ” with a look and voice of in- 
tensest love. She wavered as she spoke, and was 
caught in the blessed and blessing arms of her son. A 
mother’s form was never sustained b3" purer hands or 
truer son. She did not faint, or lose consciousness. 
She had the da3" before managed to see him at his hotel, 
and had found self-control afterwards to hear his speech, 


THE PORTRAIT AGAIN. 


339 


and had been taken away without being entirely over- 
come. Now with a flood of tears, with which'his as freely 
mingled, she recovered herself. Mother ! mother ! 
my mother ! I have a mother, my beautiful mother ! 
and I’m a happy little boy, with somebody so dear and 
sacred to love, who will let me love her. Oh, my 
mother ! and you thought I was dead — and this — my 
father ? ” 

“ Ethffed,” recovering, “ I’ve heard what you’ve suf- 
fered. That was my husband, my — ” 

“ Don’t, don’t, mother ! you need not say that to me, 
your son ; I know — I know — that must have been — 
‘ Ethfred ’ ! That is the name, and you are the mother 
of my dreams in some far tropical land. How came 
all this. Belle? Who made these discoveries? Who 
brought m}^ mother here, whose name I don’t even 
know ? ” 

“ She did ! ” cried his mother ; “ this precious, prec- 
ious Belle. No love and devotion can reward her.” 

“You — Belle ? Is this work yours ? ” 

“ Well,” said the happy girl, dropping her head, and 
in a low voice, “I had seen and — and studied this 
portrait a great many times — I was a little taken 
with it. Well, one day, over to dear Uncle Seth 
Carman’s, this portrait came through the little arbor, 
and walked around into the house. Then I knew you 
were his son. I had heard the story of your father’s 
death, and of your history, and I knew that that was a 
mistake; so I wrote letters, and did things,” very 
demurely. 

“You, your very self, you. Belle ?” — silence. 


340 


THE PORTRAIT. 


“ She herself, Belle, employed detectives, made a 
long winter journey to North Carolina, and another to 
Nauvoo ; she conducted it in person.” 

“ Oh, Belle ! There is nothing in the world I can 
offer that you will accept,” — sadly." A pause, and 
sadder still, “You could not trust me with my own 
secret ? ” 

“It might not he so. Are you unwilling to owe it 
to me, Fred?” reproachfully. 

“ Gladly, — oh, gladly ! ” 

“ She did not let me know it until after I came. I 
knew something was going on, for she sent to have me 
come and bring this precious portrait. What an exact 
likeness ! How handsome he is, isn’t he. Belle?” No 
answer to this. i 

Then came a little knock, and Maud came in and : 
gave her congratulations. Then Mr. Morris, who ■ 
declared that he had always liked Fred ; then Marburj’, j 

and then in one way and another, by littles, from each \ 

of them, except from Belle, Fred came to know all ] 
that is known to the reader. 

He was ever returning, with the fondness of a lover, 
to his newly-found mother, studying the form and ; 
features of his father, asking questions of his mother, 
and looking at the now demure and sh}^ Belle with a J 
wondering love ; and all the time the idea was repeat- j 
ing itself : “ Dear Fred ” is “ dear friend,” — only that. 

Curiously enough, in all the discussion among this 
happy group, on that long June day, not a word save • 
that of his mother in any way escaped from any - 
one, that this discovery and restoration relieved Fred t 
from the prejudice attendant upon his supposed birth. | 


The portrait agaiij. 


341 


Indeed, in that party that matter never could have 
arisen, even in thought, for none of them had ever 
shared in it. 

Belle suddenly asked Fred if he “ had seen Aunt 
Sally ? That was the most of a miracle after all, — her 
coming in, as in a story.” 

Fred had not. He understood that she and Jake 
had left. “ I will call her,” said Belle, and Aunt Sally 
came, fairl}^ beaming with joj". Fred sprang to her, 
and pressed her in his arms, when she was too happy 
to speak. “ And so. Aunt Sally, you came all the way 
from Illinois to tell me what you knew of me, and to 
love me, you dear old auntie ! ” 

Then, turning to his mother : “ Mother, she is the 
only woman who has ever loved me all these years, — 
indeed, the only human being.” 

“ Do you really think so, Fred?” asked Maud, with 
a meaning glance at Belle ; “ well, we are all going to 
love 3’ou enough now, to make that all up.” 

“ I’ve learned all 3- our sad stoiy from Aunt Sally,” 
said his mother, scarcely restraining her tears, “ and I 
know what a precious friend she has been to you, and 
to me as well.” 

Then Sam Warden and Jake came in. Jake tried 
to thank Fred, and told him “ he alius thought suthin’ 
was wrong about ’im, but never knowed wat.” Sam 
Warden came in for his say, and it was explained to 
Fred how he came to be there. Marbury spoke of the 
way that the Green confession was treated by Fred in 
court, and that they never could get a sight of it, in 
the hands of the prosecuting attorney, until at the 


842 


THE PORTRAIT* 


close of the third day of the trial ; they had thought 
that they must rely on Sam, the portrait, and Fred’s 
mother, for the last scene. Fred was asked if he would 
like to see that document. 

“Not just now; when I am more myself. My 
mother’s story has not been told me yet. You all 
know more of me than I do. I feel as awkward and 
stupid as if I was just made. I’ll find time for that 
paper soon enough.” 

In answer to Marburj", Fred afterwards said that the 
document was actually in the possession of the deceased 
man, whose name he presumed was White, and who 
was accompanied by Olney to Kirtland ; that White was 
supposed to be an adherent of Rigdon’s, who was said 
to have established himself near Pittsbiu’g, and he may 
have been on his way there from Kirtland. This paper 
was undoubtedly in the valise, which was said to have 
been carried by the man, and probably, when the 
horse ran back, as it must, with the saddle partly 
under him, the valise opened, and this paper fell out, 
as Jake solemnly declared that in walking along the 
road his foot struck the package, and knocked it out 
of the snow ; that he picked it up and carried it on, 
and never knew what it was, fully, as he could not read 
much ; he first examined it the evening after, and the 
wrapper then bore appearances of the water-stains 
made by the damp snow. Jake was following as fast 
as he could a debtor of his father, in the hope of recov- 
ering a debt ; but no proof of this could be made at 
the trial, and he thought that it would be dangerous 
to attempt to give to the jury Jake’s version of how he 


THE PORTRAIT AGAIN. 


343 


came by the papers. Some one, in passing along that 
morning, had undoubtedly picked up the valise, but 
dared not make it known, for fear of being impl/^ated 
in a supposed murder. 


CHAPTER L. 


THE STORY, 



HAT strange sensations, what a new atmos- 


V V phere sprang up within and about Fred ! Here 
was a mother, his mother, this noble and handsome 
woman, with her hair silvered, and the lines of suffer- 
ing drawn on her softened face. How lovely she was 
to him, and how natural and instinctive his love for 
her ! There always was a place for her in his heart, 
and she stepped at once and fully into it. “ Mother — 
m}^ mother ! ” he was saying to her and to himself. 
This father he could see, — but then he could see him- 
self in him, and was not vain, and he wouldn’t let his 
notions run into form, much less expression ; but he 
found himself with all the voices about him, wondering 
what was the feeling of a man towards his father. 
Father and mother, — but who and what were they? 
Where did they come from? When and where did they 
meet ? How new -and strange it all was ! Then the 
cloud and shadow of his life were at once and forever 
dispelled. Now he could love this peerless Belle, who 
had done all this. The benefaction she had conferred 
gave him the right to kneel and adore her. This, at 
least, he could do, and he looked very much as if he 
would do it literally. Curious and expectant eyes were 


( 344 ) 


THE STORY. 


345 


on these two, — Maud’s, in triumph, with a shade of 
anxiety ; the mother’s, with love and certainty ; Belle’s 
father’s, with gratified complacency ; while Marbury was 
treasuring with suppressed enjoyment two or three 
things which occurred on the homeward drive that 
morning. The time for them would come, and he 
could wait ; as for Belle, she went around, not yet 
wholly at peace, though wonderfully collected and com- 
posed, innocently avoiding everybody’s eyes, especially 
those of Fred. Thus happy, pleasant talk ran on until 
somehow Fred and his mother found themselves with 
Belle, alone, in her apartment. Then Fred’s mother 
told her story to the living son, whom she remembered 
as lying amid the flowers, under the palms, surrounded 
with fragrance and the loveliness of that tropical 
clime, and who now sprang to her arms a grown man, 
full of intellect and fervor, gentle and tender as when 
she nursed him ; and it was not a dream. But all the 
cruel past had arisen with him, fresh and torturing, 
and she told the story with much agitation and many 
tears. Some passages of it drove Fred almost mad ; 
and once or twice Belle interposed to recall him to 
himself. 

This, in substance, was what she told : Her name 
was Mary Sewall. Her father, in a right line, descended 
from the old Sewall ; was born and educated near 
Boston. She had one brother George, three or four 
3"ears her senior. Her parents died early, after which 
she resided with an uncle and aunt, on her mother’s 
side. When George was sixteen or seventeen, he 
entered the navy as a midshipman, and remained in the 
service until his death, which occurred while he was 


346 


THE PORTRAIT. 


abroad in 1830. A far-off cousin on her mother’s side, 
with whom she in a way grew up, early became her 
lover, and when she was not more than fifteen, they 
became engaged. He grew up idle and dependent 
upon her uncle, and possibly the fact that she inher- 
ited a fortune had much to do with his pursuit of her. 
It was understood that the marriage should not take 
place until she was eighteen, the age when she would, 
by her father’s will, become mistress of a certain por- 
tion of her property. She did not know, at the time, 
w'hat were her feelings toward her lover ; she only 
knew that as she grew older, the idea of marriage with 
him' became unpleasant. But as the time was remote, 
she did not trouble her mind much with it. Her cousin 
became very irregular in his habits, and negligent of 
attentions to herself. She, to a certain extent, repelled 
him ; without ever formally putting an end to her nom- 
inal engagement, she had determined that marriage 
should never take place between them, and treated him 
with distance and coldness. He was a favorite of her 
aunt’s, who did what she could to maintain harmony 
between them. Her brother was expected home in the 
autumn, when she would be seventeen, and she intended, 
with his aid, to have the affair with her cousin ended. 
Her brother had, during the summer, written to her 
glowingly of a young South Carolinian, who had spent 
the summer, much of it, on shipboard, as a guest of the 
captain, while cruising in the Mediterranean. His 
name was James D’Arlon, or Darlon, a descendant of 
an old Huguenot emigrant, and the last of the line in 
the United States. They came ; and — pointing to the 
portrait — ]\Irs. D’Arlon said, “That was painted two 


THE STORY. 


347 


years later ; yet, save that he was more youthful, you 
see how he appeared to me.” After a pause, “We 
became lovers at once, — you know what that means.” 
A pause. “ My brother was almost in ecstacies over 
this. We were young; but there seemed no good 
reason for delay, and the following spring we were 
married” — a pause. “No young girl loved more 
fondly and devotedly, and no man was ever more 
deserving. After marriage we went abroad ; my 
brother to rejoin his ship, and your father and I to 
travel, and visit the different cities in Europe, to love 
each other. Oh, what days those were ! On the fif- 
teenth of Ma}", 1819, at Florence, you were born.” 
Lon^sobbings, and Fred knelt at her feet, and laid his 
head against her bosom. “ Your father had an English 
friend, who had died while they were travelling in Egypt, 
and whose name was Ethwold Alfred Bramler ; it was 
his wish that you should bear the names of his dead 
friend in full. I consented to the two first ; j^ou were 
named Ethwold Alfred, and in a short time the two 
were contracted to Ethfred, and finally to Fred, which 
you still bear. Of all bestowed upon you by your 
father, this alone adhered to you.” 

“ That is the name — Ethfred — that I have dreamed 
of, or remembered, and I must have remembered you. 
And I now remember that Belle, the first night of our 
meeting, told me of this name, — Ethfred.” 

“ And you remembered it, and I was certain that I 
was right about you,” she answered. 

Mrs. D’Arlon resumed her narrative: — Her hus- 
band had an uncle on his mother’s side, a rich Cuban 
planter, wjio ow^ed sugar and coffee estates on the 


348 


THE PORTRAIT. 


island, and the winter before Fred was a year old they 
spent with him, on his estate on the Canema River, 
not far from Matanzas. In the spring they came 
home, spending a few weeks among D’Arlon’s relatives 
at Charleston ; the summer and autumn the}^ were in 
Boston, and other places in the north. Her husband’s 
uncle d3dng suddenly in the autumn of that year, 
D’Arlon went at once to Cuba, followed, soon after, by 
his wife and child. 

As she approached this point, she became much 
agitated, and then hurried forward. She went on to 
say, “ That the nominal engagement between herself 
and her former suitor was not by express terms broken 
off, — that her brother did not deem it necessary nor 
did she acquaint her husband with it, — that the man 
had rapidly descended, until he was almost disreput- 
able ; was a gambler, at times an inebriate, and familiar 
with all the worst vices. He followed her to Europe, 
was constantly thrusting himself upon her, and in 
unusual wa3's, and at times and under circumstances 
that occasioned her embarrassment, and that might 
attract the attention of others. 

“Everywhere we went, sooner or later, he appeared. 
At first, I did not understand his object. He soon 
demanded mone}’ of me, and as an inducement threat- 
ened to make known our former relations.” 

“ Mother, how dared he so follow you?” 

“ Patience ! such a man dare do an3^thing. I several 
times gave him considerable sums, which only gave 
him a hold upon me. I was 3"Oung and ignorant. I was 
free from him in the United States. On my last visit 
to Cuba, I found him on board the ship which took me 


THE STORY. 


349 


out, and in spite of his promise, he appeared at my 
uncle’s estate. Your father was never jealous — ” 
“Jealous, mother? Good God ! ” 

“ But the dishonorable course of this wretched man 
must in some wa}^, unknown to me, have excited his 
suspicions.” 

“ His suspicions, mother ! Of what ? ” 

“ You shall hear. If I had had the courage to go 
to him, and tell him the little that there was to tell. — 
In some way he found out that this man had sailed from 
Boston in the same ship, and I knew it displeased him 
very much. ' 

“ One day, late in March, I Jiad taken you and your 
nurse down an avenue of palms, and near a grove of 
the native orange-trees, and had laid yoij down upon the 
carpet of Bermuda grass, where 3’ou were rolling and 
throwing out your limbs, and calling me pet names, 
when this man came down the avenue, much excited, 
and said he must see me a moment, — that he was 
going out of the island forever. He looked much dis- 
tressed. Without a moment’s thought, not knowing 
what to do, I accompanied him a few steps among the 
orange-trees, when, turning and seizing m}^ hand, he 
began in a vehement manner to address some incohe- 
rent words to me. At that instant m3' husband dashed 
upon him like a tiger, and gave him a powerful 'thrust, 
which sent him several 3'ards from me ; when he recov- 
ered himself, he turned white with rage, and I savv a 
jdstol in his hand. I heard two reports, and nothing 
more.” Fred was almost in a frenz3'. “ When I came 
to consciousness I was in my own room, with none but 
my uncle’s servants about me, none of whom spoke 


350 


THE PORTRAIT. 


anything but Spanish, and I could understand but 
little of that. By degrees the memory of the awful 
occurrences came to my recollection, and I called for 
my husband and child. Nobody answered me save by 
shakes of the head. A physician from the city had 
been sent for, and I had, it seems, been bled. In a 
frenzy of fear I demanded to know if my husband 
was hurt, and to my great relief I understood, by what 
was said, that he was not. The administrator came 
— an Englishman — and brought me an envelope, 
addressed in my husband’s hand, which I tore open. 
In it was a folded letter from your father, and a small 
slip, on which was written, in the hand of the wretch 
who had pursued me, an appointment to meet him in 
the orange grove, and at about the hour that my hus- 
band found us. I had not seen it before.” A pause. 
“Your father’s letter — you may see if you wish” — 
her face was pale, its muscles rigid, and lips tightly 
drawn, while her eyes were cold and stony. “ It ac- 
cused me — of — of — oh, Fred ! ” — 

“God of heaven, mother! Did this man dare” — 
leaping to the portrait with a menace. Belle sprang 
before him. “ Fred, he was your father 1 ” 

“ It went on to say that this wretch had openly 
boasted of this in the city of Matanzas.” 

“Mother, does that wretch still live?” hissing out 
the words. 

“ He died by the hand of your father.” 

“ Thank God ! ” with great fervor from Fred. 

“ Fred I Fred ! for God’s dear sake, spare him,” 
cried Belle to the mother ; “ spare yourself these horri- 
l?Ie details.” 


THE STORY. 


351 


The almost moveless lips continued : “It said that 
the amplest provision had been made for me, but that 
I would never see him or our boy again.” Each word 
was pronounced by a distinct effort, and followed by a 
pause. Fred had returned, and knelt by her side, with 
his hands tenderly upon her waist. “ And,” going on 
in the same waj^ “ I never saw him again ; nor you, till 
yesterday.” These words came in hard, dry gasps, and 
with the last she threw her arms upon the shoulders 
of her son, and fell forward against him. 

“ Oh, Fred ! ” said Belle, going to them and laying 
her cheek among his black curls, with a hand on either, 
“I would have brought 3^ou jo}" and happiness and 
hope ; and you have only anguish and horror and 
pain.” 

“ Bless you. Belle ! ” said Fred. “ She has had to 
carry these awful burdens alone all her life ; while I, 
poor wretch, have been unhappy because Fve had no 
griefs, after all.” 

“ I have little more to sa}". I fell into a brain fever, 
and was only returning back to life amid the heat and 
vapor of the rain3’ season. I always wondered wh}^ I 
did not die, — I know now. In October, I returned to 
Charleston, only to learn that my husband and child 
were both dead. The news again prostrated me ; and 
it was not till December that, accompanied b}" one of 
your father's friends, I went to the scene of the final 
catastrophe. About a month before my arrival in 
Charleston, he had started with a carriage, a servant, 
and coachman, and taking you and your nurse, to 
make a journey into Virginia. What his ultimate pur- 
pose was did not fully appear. He had converted 


352 


tHE EORTRAlt. 


nearly all of his effects out of Cuba into money, which 
he carried with him, — over an hundred and fift3^ thou- 
sand dollars. Your nurse was taken sick, and left on 
the road, and while attempting to ford a swollen stream, 
in the mountains of the Western part of North Car- 
olina, his coachman missed the ford, overturned the 
carriage, and your father, with a fatal injurj^, received 
probably" from one of the horses, 3’ourself and his ser- 
vant escaped. The horses were drowned ; and most 
of his baggage, with the trunk that contained his 
money and papers, were swept awa}", as was told me. 
He died two days after ” — with the old, hard gasp — 
“ of his injuries. In his last moments, a sense of his 
fatal injustice to me seemed to have been permitted to 
come to him, and I was told that his last words were a 
message to me, imploring mj’- pardon for his rash mis- 
take.” Once again her head went down. 

“ Thank God for those words ! Oh, my poor, poor 
mother ! ” 

A day or two after, his servant, with some effects, 
which he is supposed to have saved, disappeared, and 
was never heard of ; and 3'ou, my precious child, was 
left alone. Bibb — Jarvis Bibb, who kept a kind of a 
wild place near the ford, where 3'our father was taken 
and died — placed you in the house of a poor man by 
'the name of Samuel Warren, where, within a few daj^s, 
j'ou were said to have died also. You must read this 
awful Bibb’s confession for the actual facts. When I 
reached Bibb, in December, all these matters were told 
to me as T give them to you. With barely" life and 
strength to drag mj^self to the graves of my husband 
and child, and without question of the truth of what 


THE STORf. 


353 


was told me, I could, in my short-sighted grief, only 
kneel by them and ask to die. As soon as possible I 
had their remains removed to Charleston, and interred 
with his ancestors. Thus, Fred, I have hurriedly given 
you this hard skeleton of our wretched, wretched his- 
tory ; some time I will give you many details that I 
feel m3'self incapable of now. Don’t,. don’t think hardl}' 
of 3^our father. He was one of the noblest and truest- 
hearted men who ever lived ! ” And she laid her head 
upon his shoulder. 

“ M}" poor, dear mother ! How impossible to con- 
sole 3"Ou for these heart and soul stabs and losses ! 
Onl3' let me love and comfort 3^011, as God will permit 
me to how ; He permitted it to happen.” 

“ God did finall3" send me surcease of pain and an- 
guish, and the hope of reunion in His heaven brought 
endurance of life. Time benumbs the power to feel 
sorroTv, and God comforts as He will.” 

So, with man3' words of mutual comfort, and gentle, 
assuring caresses, the strong, brave son took up the 
burden of his mother’s griefs, and bore it and her from 
that moment onward. As the stoiy ended. Belle left 
them to their sacred communings. Ere long the3’, too, 
escaped into the glad sunshine, and amid the gush of 
the outer life of the young, warm summer. 


CHAPTER LI. 


THE CONFESSION, 


S Fred went out, he took in his hand the Green 



document, determined to master all the remain- 
ing facts of this tragic stor}^, the substance of which he 
supposed he already possessed. 

In a quiet nook, he opened the paper, and recog- 
nized the hand of Cowdry. Although purporting to 
give the language of John Green, it was rendered in 
tolerable English, and ran thus : 

“ Being moved by the spirit, and admonished by the 
most hoi}" Prophet of Almighty God, I, Jarvis Bibb, 
called here John Green, and once known as William 
Evans, to the end of promised pardon, and the peace 
and comfort of the Holy Spirit, that passeth under- 
standing, make this my solemn confession : 

“ I was born about ten miles west of Linville, Birch 
County, N.C. My father left to my sister Sally and 
myself a place called Bibb’s Tavern, sometimes known 
as Bibb’s Hole, and often called Bibb’s Hell. To pre- 
vent my sister Sally’s marrying, and thus to secure 
the whole of this property to myself, I induced the 
jmung man to whom she was engaged to believe that 
she had criminal connections with young Phil Coney 
and others, and did induce her to join in a sale of the 


( 354 ) 


THE CONFESSION. 


355 


property, and never paid her for her share until this 
past year. 

“ In the year 1821, about the twentieth of September, 
there had been a freshet, so that Devil’s Creek, which 
ran near my house, was dangerous to pass. Just at 
night of that day, James D’Arlon, of Charleston, S. C., 
attempted to pass the ford, which he missed. The 
carriage was overturned, the coachman and horses 
drowned, and most of the baggage was swept away. 
Mr. D’Arlon was badly hurt ; but owing partly to the 
exertions of his servant Dick, and by my help, he and 
his little son, called Fred, were got out and taken to 
my house, where, on the next day, he died of his hurts. 
As God is my judge, I never thought of injuring him. 
He talked a good deal of his wife, and said he had been 
cruel to her, and left word for her to forgive him. The 
boy Dick said that his master had a large sum of money, 
in gold and bank-notes, in a small iron trunk, which 
would, of course, sink. Just before Mr. D’Arlon died, 
we found this trunk, and got it out. The trunk was 
very heav}’, and Dick said there was half a million of 
dollars in it. My place is among the mountains, Avith 
few living near it, and the devil entered into my wicked 
heart to make way with the boy Dick, and keep the 
money. It was a dark, rain}" night ; and having given 
him something in his liquor, when he was stupid and 
asleep I strangled and carried him down just below 
my house, and pitched him into the ‘ Devil’s Hole,’ in 
the creek, and told that he had robbed his master, and 
ran awa}". I got the key, and, on opening the trunk, I 
found there the bank-notes, mostly on New York and 
Boston banksy as I learned afterwards, had been rolled 


356 


THE PORTRAIT. 


in oil-skin, and were not wet. I don’t know how much 
there was — I never could count it rightly — more than 
I ever saw before or since. When Mr. D’Ai'lon died, I 
sent down to Linville, about fifteen miles, and got a 
coffin and a notary and a preacher, and Mr. D’Ai’lon 
was buried. The notaiy took an inventory of what he 
had — his watch and chain, and what money was in 
his purse, and some papers — paid my bills, and took 
them with him to Linville. He also wrote to a man in 
Charleston to hunt up and tell Mr. D’Aiion’s friends. 
I never touched a thing but what was in the trunk, 
which I hid. 

“ What to do with the boy, about two or three years 
old, I did not know. Sally was away all this time, 
and I got Samuel Warren, a sort of a relative who was 
at my place, to take him till his friends should come 
for him. About ten days after that, Sam’s child Jied, 
and I then thought that this boy might pass as his, as 
there was nobody that knew which child died ; accord- 
ingly it was given out that the boy had died also, as 
was reasonable. I was afraid that if the boy grew up 
among his father’s friends, or with his mother, when he 
was old enough -something would happen, and he would 
find everthing out. So I paid Sam fifty dollars and 
the run of drink, to take the boy as his own. When 
the bo3'’s mother came, Sam’s wife went up into the 
mountains to a place I knew, and took this boy with 
her. I told them all about it, and finally they had the 
bodies removed. 

“ After this I did not feel safe ; I could not use the 
money, and in the spring I sold the place, and Sally 
signed the deed. I took Sam and his wife, and the 


THE CONFESSION. 


857 


boy, and Sally, and went across the mountains, into 
Tennessee, where I was known as William Evans. 
Sally was my widowed sister, and kept her name. We 
stayed there and cropped one season, and then moved 
to Western Virginia, where I met a man from the West- 
ern Reserve, who owned land in the town of Mantua. 
I found there was no communication between that re- 
gion and the South, and that no man from the South 
ever moved on to the Reserve ; so I bought his land, and 
took the deed in the name of John Green, my wife’s 
brother ; buying up a good many cattle and horses and 
things, I moved here, and came in the spring of 1824. 
Here I took the name of John Green, and Sally, my 
sister, though called a widow, came to be known as 
Sally Green. We brought the boy Fred, and I bought a 
piecp of land on the river in the woods, so that nobody 
might ever see the boy, for he was not like common 
boys ; and Sam, whose name here was Warden, built a 
log house and lived there. When his wife died, I had 
him bind the boy to me, and when the fight came off, 
and Jake killed his dog, I told the selectmen that, after 
all, he was Sally’s boy. She had suspected some- 
thing all the time, and always declared that this was 
not Betsey’s, — Sam’s wife’s child. We had an awful 
quarrel, and to quiet her, I gave her a deed of the Jim 
Frost farm, and five hundred dollars in gold. 

“ The older this boy grew, the more anxious I was to 
keep him. Something has told me, that if he goes 
away, he will hunt up harm to me. 

“ Sally don’t know how it got out that the boy is hers, 
and as she has taken such a liking to him, she seems 
not to care about it. I never really thought of putting 


S58 


THE EOEtEAlt. 


this boy out of the way, though I did not know what 
to do with him. I never murdered any man ; I onlj’’ 
killed the nigger boy Dick. 

“ In the name of God, Amen. 

“ John Green, his M mark. 

“ In presence of II. D. Ladd. 

“ Mantua, January, 1831. Acknowledged, etc** 

Fred had read in the law-books the digest of sin- 
gular and vulgar crimes, and the uninstructed rude 
and simple details of them, in the naive confessions of 
low-bred villains ; but for straightforward, hard, dry, 
unrelieved, undressed narration of murder and robberj^, 
nothing that he had ever met in downright honesty of 
statement equalled this. The grim naivete of the dec- 
laration, that he had never murdered a man, had only 
killed a nigger, and chucked him into the “ Devil’s 
Hole ” of a dark night, was not wholly lost on Fred, 
even now. And this was John Green’s secret, and it 
was by means of reaching his superstitious fears that 
this paper was extorted ; this placed him with his 
uncounted plunder in the hands of the Prophet ; made 
him and his, the bound thrall of Jo Smith ; compelled 
him to submit to an instantaneous sequestration of every- 
thing he claimed, and closed his mouth against outcry 
or complaint. In the dark and mysterious courses of 
permitted and punished crime, what surpassed this ? 

This was his story. The child of these beautiful, 
loving^ and unfortunate parents, born in Florence, 
snatched by his father from his mother, and hur- 
ried off on a mysterous journey, and substituted for 
another, and hid from his mother in the mountains ; hia 


THE CONFESSION. 


359 


pilgrimage through Tennessee and Virginia, and strange 
wild life in the Ohio woods ; twice bound, and always 
kept under the eye and shadow of this murderer ; his 
life warped and darkened by him in his unsleeping 
fear; led by Green on a circuitous, obscure road, 
running through all the slow-moving years of infancy, 
bo^^hood, and early youth, until, when he had matured 
into the image of his father, he was thus brought 
under eyes that recognized him at a glance, and that 
penetrated the hidings and frauds of these fears and arti- 
fices, in a moment. How shallow and futile the strat- 
agems of the most cunning criminal always are, alwa^^s 
leaving a clew dangling in the e^’^es and within the 
reach of the hands of men, could they only see it. How 
strange and mysterious the way in which this document 
came to his hand, to finally tell the story, thrust upon 
him, while he was defending the son of this man ! 
Nay, that son was the messenger who bore it to him ! 
His mind, trained to acuteness, could rapidl}" run over 
and through the links ; y^et the why and wherefore was 
as inscrutable to him as to the thrush that piped the day 
through from the forest thicket, not remote. And how 
darkly he had been closed in and circled about by the 
lines of all these tragic years ! Suffering, and helping 
to pay the penalty of his innocent mother’s ignorance, 
and of his maddened father’s rashness. He was at the 
end of it now, and how diminutive seemed Jake, and 
his petty trial and final acquittal. He, too, was caught 
and nearly crushed in the recoibof the acts of his father, 
committed in his infancy. And on his trial the bare 
possession of this writing might have been fatal to him, 


360 


THE PORTRAIT. 


could the fact have been established, that it was in the 
possession of the dead man. But how far off now in 
remote perspective lay the trial which had but just 
closed, clear away at the other end of the dark history, 
so suddenly unrolled between it and the triumphant 
advocate. 

In the midst and through, the mist of it all, and up 
over it all, floated the form of Belle. Her eye had 
detected the likeness ; her hand had clutched the, to 
others, unseen clew, which, with her undreamed of 
energies, she followed up. True, the slow-growing 
fruits were ripening in their bitterness, and a catas- 
trophe of some kind would have precipitated itself. 
Green’s confession was on its mysterious way East ; 
its messenger was to be slain ; the paper was to fall into 
Jake’s hands ; — had it fallen into any others, or lain on 
the ground, no trial for murder would ever been had. 
But it was Belle, as he had learned, who had dictated 
to him the message that put him in connection with 
the case. To him, how wonderful it all seemed. And 
it was wonderful. 

And did none or all of these things presage that the 
history of Belle and his own were Anally to unite in 
one sweet story of old time romance ? Thus he mused 
and wandered in the shrubbery, midst opening roses in 
the declining afternoon. Others were coming and 
going in the walks, and the eyes of two were specially 
on him — his proud and almost happy mother — who 
was not remote, and shy and innocent Belle, who 
was remote, and who yet, curiously enough, did not 
long have him out of the range of her downcast* eyes. 


THE CONFESSION. 


361 


Soon came the call for dinner, when Fred and hia 
mother met, and he took her arm, and as they walked 
toward the house, somehow Belle was standing - in 
their ‘course, and took her other arm, and the three 
found Maud and her father and husband awaiting 
them. 


CHAPTER LII. 


THE LOVERS. 

I T would have been curious to an observer — the 
tacit concert of those who gathered around the 
dinner-table — by which no reference was made to any 
of the late exciting events, or the incidents of the 
tragic history, which all knew was now common prop- 
ert3^ Maud, in her graceful and ripened beauty, pre- 
sided at the head, while the manly face of her husband, 
rich with the play of genial humor, looked back to her 
from the other end of the table. Fred, with his mother 
on one side, and Belle and her father on the other, 
with the beautiful children, one b}^ the mother and the 
other by the father, made up the part^’. Mr. Morris, 
in his soft, low voice, said a short grace. No one 
was much inclined to conversation. Mrs. D’Arlon had 
recovered her wonted serenity, and peace was in her 
eyes. Fred’s face was grave and thoughtful, with an 
occasional lifting of his eyes to the demure face of 
Belle, opposite him, who did not meet them at all, as 
the observant Maud noticed, from which she augured 
favorably. She thought that this matter would be left to 
the silent workings of Belle’s own heart and soul, with 
Fred standing b}" in reverent silence. That was, of 
course all very high, and sacred, and sublimated. 

(ae?) 


THE LOVERS. 


363 


She doubted if she could quite appreciate it ; and as 
she met the frank, loving glance of her husband, with 
their beautiful children in her ej^es, she realized that 
husband and children were preferable to mere soul- 
love above the clouds. As she looked at the kindling 
face of Fredi she doubted whether ambrosia and nectar 
would always sustain him, and whether he would not 
at some time dash his arms impetuously about Belle’s 
waist, and assert the rights of his man’s love. She was 
much inclined to rely on these reserved forces if need 
be. Yet on the whole she doubted whether they would 
ever be called into action. Her sister had so suddenly 
developed the strong and deep qualities of her real 
nature, that she had become inscrutable to Maud ; yet 
she fancied that, like many a maiden wondering over 
the opening secrets of her own heart and its needs, she 
was even now trembling with running over its hoarded 
sweets and wealths, and that it would ere long make its 
voice heard on Belle’s mooted question. Much as a 
fond mother who is intensely interested in the varying 
phenomena of a daughter the worshipped of a true and 
noble man, toward whom every element of her nature 
was drawn, watches her every movement in a charmed 
atmosphere, colored with his presence, she closely ob- 
served her sister. As the afternoon lapsed into twi- 
light, and the softened breeze in dying whispers was 
taking tender leave of the closing flowers, and the full 
moon was shooting its silvery darts aslant under the 
trees, she missed the forms of both. They were not on 
any of the verandahs, nor in the parlors, or library — 
not in Belle’s boudoir — and she thought that she had 
once caught the gleam of a white dress in the famous, 


364 


THE PORTRAIT. 


grape arbor, a little remote, and which terminated one 
of the walks. As the twilight deepened, and the night 
air grew damp and chill, she remembered Belle’s light- 
robed shoulders, and knew she would not come in — 
that girls were never known to — and taking a light, 
warm wrap, she. went toward the arbor, along the 
gravelled walk. Like the considerate Mrs. Nickleby, 
she signalled her approach, and looked away from the 
arbor. As she stood in the leaf-surrounded entrance 
with the proffered wrap, Fred arose from a low seat at 
Belle’s feet, came forward, and took the shawl with a 
low “ thanks,” and she turned away. 

Not all the possible nameless details that may have 
hovered in the atmosphere of Maud’s fancy — perhaps 
none of them — had marked the interview. Fred had 
fallen on his knees on the low seat at Belle’s feet as 
she sat down, and in a very compelling way she bade 
him assume a more ordinary, if, under the circum- 
stances, a less lover-like attitude. But his impetuous, 
heartful and soulful voice would not at first be quenched. 
“ Oh, Belle ! my heart and soul will speak ; will be 
heard — not in little paper parcels — but at 3^our feet I 
will say, that with every power of heart, soul, and 
brain, with every emotion and fibre of my being, I 
love you ; not with a love that would command or 
compel; not a love that will implore or supplicate, 
but a man’s love, to reverence and worship ; a love 
that you may smite and reject, if you will, and it will 
not murmur.” Once, as he spoke, she extended her 
hand, and then snatched it from him. In the alread}^ 
twilight arbor, he could not see her face, but her form 
shook as if with a suppressed emotion. She removed 


THE LOVERS. 


365 


her hand from her face, — “ Fred, Fred ! ” in a deep, 
earnest voice, “ I am a woman ; I cannot bear to 
have you think that I am less than a woman ; a woman 
to be loved ; a woman to be glorified and crowned with 
with such love as yours ; one who would above earth 
gladly give back all she is and has ! ” — a pause, and 
lower and deeper. — “ Listen ! I am a wife now.” 

“ A wife ! You a wife ! ” starting up in amazement, 
almost in horror. “ How ? I don’t understand. I 
thought your boy-husband died years ago. Is there ? 
can there — ? ” 

“ There cannot be ; there is no other. Oh, no other, 
Fred!” 

“ Did not his death dissolve this marriage ? Are 
you still bound to a phantom — a shade — a memory? ” 
with astonishment in his voice. 

“ Were I free as you are free, to give you myself, as 
I would give ; and should it please God to separate us 
for a little, would you, in my absence, woo, love, win, 
and wed another ? ” 

“ Oh, Belle ! how you torture me. In my heart and 
soul I reverence a true marriage as eternal.” 

“ Would you take another’s wife in adultery?” 

He dropped his face and groaned. “ It was not so 
much to hear you, or to argue this matter with you, 
that I came with you here, as to tell you my own little 
story.” Then without hesitation, in her unconscious 
innocence, she told him the story of her married life. 
And if there was ever lover worthy of such a confidence, 
it was he who reverently listened to her on that June 
night. When she finished, a silence ensued, and it 
was during this silence that the thoughtful Maud 


366 


THE PORTRA.it. 


brought the needed wrap. As Fred received, he l^id 
it with a tender reverence about her shoulders, and 
still remained standing, as if she would terminate the 
interview then. She evinced no such purpose, and 
Fred resumed his seat. 

‘‘ Fred,” speaking again, “ this has been the subject 
of thought and pra3’er and of some conversation with 
Maud ; and I sa}^ frankly, that lately’, when IVe tried 
in my own soul to meet it, I am in doubt. I think I 
can see where my duty lies, but I don’t feel it so 
strongly — ’’with a sweet sincerit}'’ — “and, Fred, 
knowing this — ” 

“ Belle, Belle, don’t let me be tempted to assail, to 
throw my arms of passion about the soul’s wings, 
when it would arise white and spotless to God’s throne 
for light. God, with your soul, must decide this! ” with 
a sad earnestness. 

With a wonderful sweetness and trust, she now placed 
her hand in his. “ Oh, m}’’ soul’s lover and brother, — 
now indeed can I trust you I Do you not feel it possi- 
ble, that out of the atmosphere of earth and above its 
clouds and gross perfumes, souls may meet and com- 
mune ? ” 

“Belle, I distrust this. The most elevated and 
exalted soul is only strong as its temple is pure and 
sacred. For one, I dare not hope that such a union 
can ever become purified and sublimated, and beside, 
is not 3^our marriage one of soul and spirit, purely! 
and will your wedded spirit admit another to commun- 
ion with it? ” Was there a little of sarcasm in this? or 
was it the recoil — the revolt of the instinctive man 
from the only hope she profiered ? 


THfi LOVERS. 


.^67 


“ Fred,” a little coldly, “ there can be but one mar- 
riage of soul as of body. The chaste and pure may 
have friendships, may they not? ” 

“ Friendships ! friendships ! and friendships of the 
soul ! What empty, meaningless words ! I am but a 
man, and never less a man than now ; ” with a sad 
bitterness. 

“ Fred,” solemnl^^, “ would you wed with me, take 
me as your wife, if I, consenting, should still see this 
other tie lying between us ? ” 

“Belle, though I would compass earth and compel 
all its impossibilities to reach you, yet 3"ou must come 
to me without the shadow of doubt or distrust, — -sith 
your whole self.” 

She extended to him her other hand, and they arose, 
passed out under the moon, and without another word 
returned to the house, and, at the door of Belle’s ap ^rt- 
ments, they silently took leave of each other for the 
night. 


CHAPTER LIII. 


BELLE SENDS ANOTHER MESSAGE. 

ATER, Belle emerged from the charmed mys- 



-L-i teries of her sleeping-room, with hair looped up 
in beautiful hanging festoons, with light rippling 
through its wavelets, in a simple robe of white, that just 
gave freedom and air to the shoulders, and fastened in 
front, so as to permit a little auroral white to radiate 
up through its openings. Lightly her graceful folding 
robe of white silent stuff, gathered about her waist, 
uuder the easy restraint of woven silk cords tied at the 
left side ; and as she came forward and reclined upon 
a spacious sofa-like lounge, with rich silken cushions, 
the snowy slipper which stole so innocently and uncon- 
ciously into the light, betraj^ed that it alone covered, 
without hiding, a foot that had but one peer in the 
world. Her face was never so serenely lovely as now ; 
not the warm sensuous loveliness of a promised bride, 
half conscious that sense united to form its glow ; but 
the celestial and serene loveliness of the affianced of 
Heaven, in which the vague and far-off emotion of 
earth was still present, but purified until it took the 
color and hue of heaven. 

The face was grave, too, almost to solemnity, for she 
felt that the hour of final ordeal had come. She had 


( 368 ) 


BELLE SENDS ANOTHER MESSAGE. 


36S 


shrunk from this love that had so enfolded her, and 
would not let her escape, and in which she could hardly 
have breathed had she not compelled it to color and shape 
itself in the grasp of her high ideal. She had shrunk 
from herself, would not be with herself, would not kndw 
herself, and as constantly rushed out of and away from 
herself ; now for this day she had been compelled to 
reoccupy her inner self. And Fred, — she was not now 
compelled to avoid him. He had been the one subject 
of thought, action and being ; but it was in the decep- 
tive character of an object to help, toil, scheme, and 
plan for, not in the guise of a lover, who was some 
time to know and reward with a life of devotion. Now 
this delusion had vanished, and he was before her with 
his great unselfish love, tested by her two or three 
questions, and she knew that it could be trusted. All 
the time, the two or three cries of anguish which had 
escaped him in his moments of heat in his speech for 
Jake, were haunting her memory. Now she must an- 
swer to herself, to the memory of Edward, to her soul, 
and to God, and that she might answer the final ques- 
tion to Fred. 

So, alone in the cold, white, colorless chamber of her 
undraped, ungarnished soul, she knelt, not to argue, not 
to question, not to yearn, or implore, or supplicate, 
but by the mighty power of silent, undoubting, unhes- 
itating faith, to draw herself into the serene presence of 
her highest conception of God, and lay herself hopefully 
and confidingly at His feet, in silent, receptive com- 
munion. A sweet and blessed peace seemed to steal 
upon and pervade her heart, and to her closed eyes 
appeared to come a pure, colorless light, gradually in- 
24 


370 


THE PORTRAIT. 


creasing until the apartment was luminous with it. 
Radiating from no centre, it cast no shadows, but grew 
brighter and more effulgent until every surface was 
tremulous with its undazzling brillanc3\ Then slowly 
it receded and faded out, and the white raj^s of the 
moon fell through the uncurtained window, visible in 
the dim light of the lamp, and the rustle of the silken 
curtain answered back to the whispering zephyr. 

Had she slept, — had she dreamed ? What mattered 
it ? Light and rest had certainly come in that hour, 
and drawing a covering over her, she passed from wak- 
ing to sleeping consciousness. 

Fred, though blessed, and for him happ}’, like most 
mortals, found gi’eat incompleteness — something want- 
ing, — and that something was, after all, the only thing 
in the world. He had Belle’s love, — he knew that 
he wanted her. He had never really hoped for her 
love. He knew he had it now, and this knowledge 
brought a great, but at best a pained exaltation. Now 
he understood it all. She had loved him ; her love had 
inspired her, in the great labor, and with a great sagac- 
ity, to catch at clews, and follow them through lab- 
yrinths with confidence, where others could not see, and 
followed in blind distrust and uncertainty. And after 
all, was she not too beautiful and good, too high and 
sacred, for any man’s wife ? So he could but canonize 
her, and surround her with a halo of saintship, and set 
her apart for worship. But it brought no peace, did in 
no way meet a great want. She would not change. 
She had set herself apart, and would remain conse- 
crated, and it was not for him to throw his earthy 
shadow over the stainlessness of her soul. 


Belle sends another messagb* 371 

The awful strain which for many days had been upon 
his strength and energies, in actual and long labor, and 
the fearful excitement that involved the deepest and 
strongest emotions of his heart during the day, and 
for many days, had at last completely exhausted him ; 
and he was soon overwhelmed in profound and dream- 
less sleep, which differed from death only, in the vague, 
far-off, feeble consciousness of continuing life. When 
he awoke, he awoke from a deep sleep, almost as 
profound as that from which it is said the dead may 
finally spring. It was well in the morning as he 
arose, with all the recent events throbbing back upon 
him. Belle was the first, and then his mother, and 
these brought all the rest. back. He was a little lan- 
guid and a little sore, and found that his eyelids looked 
heavy, as if oversteeped with sleep. He dressed him- 
self slowly, and stepped out. Just outside stood a 
young girl, a maid of Belle’s, who approached him with 
a blush and courtesy : 

“ Please, sir — Miss Belle said will you come to her, 
please ? ” 

“ Certainly ; ” and by a way new to him, he was con- 
ducted down and through a passage to the door of her 
boudoir, which was slightly ajar. His attendant pushed 
it open, and he entered. Belle, without raising her 
eyes to his, met him and held out both her hands, with 
a conscious fiush deepening on lip and cheek. Won- 
dering, he took her hands, which were not quite steady, 
and in his confusion he stooped and kissed them, and 
as they were not withdrawn, he lifted his face towards 
hers ; there were her rich red lips, very near, and to 
these he placed his .own ; one arm clasped that little, 


372 


THE PORTRAIT. 


yielding waist, as a lover clasps ; and their warm, glad, 
happy tears united and fell. A moment, — “Belle — 
this means love and hope and life ? ” — in breathless 
ecstacy. 

“Love and hope and life, Fred!” — just raising her 
eyes and dropping them again. 

“And wifehood, and all it means?” eagerly. 

“ And wifehood, and all it means,” with sweet finn- 
ness. 

“ Freely ? ” — a little anxiously. 

“ Freely, — and oh, so gladly 1 ” 

And they knelt together, and united in blessed 
thanks, that brought new blessings. 

In the capacious library adjoining the breakfast- 
room were assembled the other members of the party, 
awaiting the arrival of our principal personages. The 
mother had not seen the newly-found son that morning, 
nor had Mr. Morris seen Belle ; yet if one might judge 
by the countenance, Maud was more anxious for their 
appearance than any of the party. So intensely and 
so hopefully had she sympathized with Beliefs love for 
Fred, and quite as much with him, and so little had 
she appreciated what appeared to her as the shadowiest 
of shadows, which Belle permitted to interpose between 
her and Fred, that she was impatient for the conclu- 
sion which to her clear-seeing and practical mind was 
at some time soon, inevitable. The grape-arbor inter- 
view she highly approved of ; but she had observed 
that they returned from it early, and she had seen 
nothing of either since. After all, was this son of a 
fiery Southern, with his French blood, to prove a sort 
of a ‘Miss Nancy in love’? or had he, too, been 


BELLE SENDS ANOTHER MESSAGE. 


373 


infected with some of Belle’s ecstatic notions of shad- 
owy marriages in heaven ? She thought that he would 
be very likely to have healthy views, and on the whole 
she was hopeful. Then the door was pushed open, and 
Belle and Fred entered and paused a moment, beautiful 
in the light and glow of their perfect happiness. 

“ Oh, Belle ! Belle ! ” exclaimed the excited and now 
satisfied Maud, springing forward, and throwing her 
arms about her sister’s neck. “ Oh, I am so glad ! ” 
In a moment it fiashed upon the rest ; and father and 
mother, with tears and happy words, embraced, blessed, 
and congratulated the lovers, while Marbur^^, who had a 
profound admiration for Fred’s talent, and who had a 
real liking for him, assured him, with tears in his eyes, 
that this alone was needed to complete the happiest 
circle. 

A moment after, Maud, who had disappeared from 
the room, returned with a small morocco case in her 
hand, and going to Fred, she said : “ I never was so 
near having a brother before ; let me contribute some- 
thing to make this new relation seem more real. I 
knew this would happen, and so I provided for this 
blessed hour ! ” She opened the case, and, producing 
a beautiful solitaire, Fred took the ring, mid the silence 
of the approving throng, and placed it upon the finger 
of the blushing Belle ; then raising the jewelled hand, 
pressed it to his lips, leaving tears upon it. Then, with 
joined hands, the two received the blessings of the father 
and mother. 

The housekeeper, who had taken special care of Aunt 
Sally, brought that personage forward, who had already 
learned what Belle had done for her favorite, and she 


374 


THE PORTRAIT. 


stood now a little abashed in presence of Fred’s mother 
and Belle and Maud, glad beyond expression at his 
wonderful restoration, yet sad, as she felt that he 
would now be shut awa}^ from her forever. As she en- 
tered and paused, Fred seemed to comprehend what 
was passing in her mind, and going forward to her, 
took her hands, and cried : “ No, no. Aunt Sally ! You 
are always to live with me, and be m}^ Aunt Sall3\” 

“ With us ! ” cried Belle, coming up and kissing her ; 
“ and be our Aunt Sally. Next to his mother, j^ou have 
the oldest claim upon him, and we will make you blessed 
and happ3" ! ” When Fred’s mother joined in this as- 
surance, the old woman seemed supremely blessed. 

Sam Warden and Jake, who were discovered at the 
door, were brought in, Fred sa^dng, pleasantl}”, ‘‘ that 
as Sam was a sort of foster-father, and had alwa^-s been 
kind to him, he thought he, too, had a right to know 
of the marvellous good fortune that had finally overtaken 
him.” It lost him not a bit in the love of Belle, that in 
this moment he should recall even the little that he 
owed to Sam. Jake, who would have been embarrassed 
b^" the presence in which he found himself, had also the 
grace to feel the position he occupied towards Fred, 
whom he had met but once since they parted, the night 
of his acquittal. He stood hesitating and crying. As 
Fred approached him, his face grew first sad, as the 
memories and sufferings of his life thronged through 
his mind, and tears, too, came into his eyes. “ Jake,” 
he said, in a softened voice, “ we are finally friends, are 
we not? Not a word of the past years, Jake. In a 
way, we were involved in a common misfortune, and 
thankful are we that we have escaped.” Jake would 


BELLE SENDS ANOTHER MESSAGE. 


375 


have spoken, but could only raise Fred's hand to his 
lips, and sob over it. There was nature oven in him ; 
and it had at last been touched, and at that moment 
he looked almost good in Belle's tear-blinded eyes. 

And all this time the breakfast cools, — and let it 
cool! 


All that happened, — oh, ever and ever so long ago I 
Twenty-eight years, on this last day of May, 1873, as 
the vision fades from my regretful memory, and dwin- 
dles to a* tale that brings a blinding mist to my eyes. 

Just before the war, which has antiquated everything 
that preceded it, I stopped at the Mantua Station, on 
the Mahoning Railroad, after long, long years of ab-. 
sence. There was the old Judge Atwater mansion 
turned into a tavern, and save the Cuyahoga, a 
diminished but still a beautiful stream, my eye saw no 
familiar thing. In a heavy but bent form, I finally 
recognized Darwin. It was a pilgrimage for me ; and, 
as I stood about the depot, curious strangers looked at 
me, and queried of my name, and when they heard it, 
no man could identify me, and I knew none of them. 
I wandered up the banks of the river, recalling 
all the past. In a bayou overhung with willows was 
the remains of a little dug-out, covered with the still 
water, and nearly buried with drift. Somehow it re- 
minded me of Fred's little canoe, cast adrift so long 
ago. Farther up, in a lonely mullen and thistle-grown 
field, remote from any dwelling, I recognized the de- 
serted heap of stones, and the solitary apple-tree, that 
marked the site of the rude hut that sheltered his chil4- 


376 


THE PORTRAIT. 


ish years. Melanchol}^ beyond expression, I returned 
to the Station, and wandered up the old State road, 
towards the Corners. The old brick tavern had dis- 
appeared, and no vestige of the old South School- 
house remained. Chapman, an elderly man, had turned 
farmer, and grown weight3^ Turner had been for years 
out of the hotel, and was also a thriving farmer. 
Nothing at the Corners remained. Young Foster had 
built a new store, where the old Maryfield house onoe 
stood, and a stranger was in the old tavern-house. In 
the kitchen-garden, under the barberry’ bushes, was a 
small marble pillar, with the name “ Sir Walter.” In 
the now populous cemetery, over west, by the side 
of Elias’s grave, stood another stone, sacred to the 
memory of Mary Carman, and still another to the 
memory of Sarah. Uncle Bill Skinner slept near by, 
and a neat stone marked the resting-place of Betsey 
Warden, having “Fred” on its base. Fenton had 
moved awa3^ 

My friend George Sheldon took me up the State 
road, just beyond where the Fenton place was, and 
there in a little cottage, presided over by a beautiful 
daughter of Sarah, we found Uncle Seth, still serene 
and cheerful ; although, save this 3'oung maiden and 
her sisters, nobody" was left to him. Martha had died 
years before, in her distant home, and slept in other 
earth. 

We went along up to the next corners, from which a 
mile' east could be seen the upper story of the Carman 
farm-house, to which we drove. The old pear-tree was 
dead, but still standing, a monument of the blight and 
decay that had fallen on the once beautiful homestead. 


BELLE SENDS ANOTHER MESSAGE. 


377 


The farm-house was shabby and neglected, weeds and 
burdock were in the yard ; Sarah’s flower-garden had 
been turned into a pig-yard, and neglect and ruin 
brooded over all the old home. A coarse, common man 
had purchased the property, and cut down a part of the 
old orchards, and left the fallen trees to decay where 
they fell. The fences were rotting, and falling down ; 
the “Springs” were choked up, producing bogs and 
small swamps. 

We drove over to the Rapids. The magnificent 
chestnut forests had been cut away, and rude, stumpy 
fields and sordid farm-houses gleamed and glinted in 
the late August sun. The Furmans had moved away. 
All the forests had vanished from the now tame and 
shrunken Cuyahoga. A flouring-mill and machine- 
shop employed the water, and the already dilapidated 
little wooden town of Harrison disfigured the eastern 
bank of the river. 

We talked over the old time exploit of Fred; the 
rescue of the drowning maiden — whom we also saw, a 
comely matron with her children — and recalled the 
fortunes of some who had been connected with his 
earlier years. 

Jake Green had accompanied Warden back to Mis- 
souri, and had not been heard of for years. 

Father Henry had lost his voice in the dark waters. 
He “assisted” at the wedding of Fred and Belle; 
and the quaint and tender things said to have been 
uttered by him on that occasion were still remem- 
bered and repeated with variations and additions. 

And Belle and Fred, — what of them? — whose real 
lives were about to commence so brightly, beautifully, 


378 


THE PORTRAIT. 


and hopefully? Would you know? They had a his- 
tory, and if the world evinces an interest in these pre- 
liminary chapters, that history, much of which the 
world knows, may be indicted more completely. 




















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